


Don't Look Down

by lilbluednacer



Series: Fear of Falling [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballet, Boarding School, Eventual Psychological Breakdown, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lydia-centric, Mentions of Injuries, Mentions of Suicide, Perfectionism, Peter Hale is a creep, Scott is a Good Friend, Slow Burn, Trauma, Underage Drinking, background scallison, implied eating disorder, literally every character is in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-01-08 06:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 264,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12249252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilbluednacer/pseuds/lilbluednacer
Summary: Lydia has a plan - land a starring role in the student showcase, get accepted into the Hale Ballet Company, and become a prima ballerina.Her plan doesn't say anything about falling for Stiles Stilinski.





	1. special topics in ballet

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with the entire concept at three in the morning so you all have my chronic insomnia to blame for this. Please check out the tags for warnings before reading.
> 
> This fic has outfit sets linked throughout the story, to view them all together you can see them on [Fashmates](https://www.fashmates.com/traeflower12/looks)

In the reflection of the huge floor length mirror six girls are standing in fifth position in a staggered line, the heels of their right feet pressed against the toes of their left. Lydia beat Erica to the front center spot today and she stands with her arms curved in front of her pelvis, palms up, thumbs tucked in, studiously watching herself in the mirror.

"Entrechat!" Madamoiselle Marin calls out. She's standing in the front corner of the studio near the piano, hovering at the edge of the mirror so they can all watch themselves as they move.

Lydia jumps straight up in the air, toes pointed, beats her right leg behind her left before bringing it back to the front, rolling through the balls of her feet as she lands in fifth position again, left foot behind the right, turning out from her hips.

"Changement!" 

They all jump straight up again, six pairs of legs scissoring in the air and landing in fifth with their left leg in front this time. It's a pattern, _entrechat, changement_ , and all the girls follow along with Marin's commands, warming up their feet for the bigger jumps they'll do across the floor.

Marin watches them with a critical eye, the hem of her black chiffon skirt brushing against the grey slip-resistant vinyl covered sprung floor before clapping her hands. "Alright ladies, from the corner."

Allison bumps her hip against Lydia's as they walk to the far corner to file into a single line, a row of girls in matching scoopneck black [leotards](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528916730351) and pale pink tights, the regulation uniform of level eight girls, the highest level of Hale Ballet Company's School of Ballet.

"Pique jumps," Marin calls out, leaning her hip against the piano in the opposite corner of the studio. "In attitude derrière, s'il vous plait. Two groups of three."

Cora, Erica, and Malia get into place, standing with Cora front and center facing the opposite corner of the studio, Erica and Malia behind her on either side, forming a V. The accompanist starts playing as Marin starts to count, _five, six, seven, eight_ , and the three girls all step onto their right feet and leap up into the air, their left legs bent at the knee in attitude derrière position (the raised left leg held at a ninety degree angle to the body in back, right leg straight and pointed down at the floor) before landing and stepping onto their left leg to repeat the jump on the other side, all the way across the floor.

Lydia lets Allison take the front position on their side of the studio, standing a few feet behind Allison's left shoulder as Kira moves into place behind Allison's right. Marin counts them in when the first group is halfway across the floor. Lydia leaps into the air, surreptitiously glancing at her reflection to see how high she is. She's shorter than the typical dancer, much to the dismay of her teachers, so she has to work harder to make the most of her limbs.

She throws herself into the second leap, body hovering high above the floor as she bends and lifts her right leg behind her, and this right here, this feeling, is why she loves ballet:

For a few brief seconds she feels huge, and powerful, beyond human. She's weightless, she's flying.

She's free.

They do a few more combination jumps across the floor, a series of glissade jetés and pax de chats, before dancing a final combination. Marin almost never demonstrates, just tells them the combination while they mark it with their hands.

"Tombé, pas de bourrée, glissade, grand jeté, step back to fourth, triple pirouette en dehors, repeat on the left." Marin waves an arm and they all scurry to line up against the left wall facing the mirror.

They get eight counts to prepare, standing in fifth position. Lydia flutters her arms before bring them to low fifth, arms curved and palms facing up, _six, seven, eight, go_. She falls to the side and lands on her right leg, lifts up on releve for the pas de bourrée, a small three step: left leg behind her right, right out to the side, left coming in front to land in fifth position. Glissade, she leaps to the right, closing her feet in fifth position when she lands before jumping to the right again, landing solely on her right leg, working left leg bent behind it, her left toes kissing her right heel.

Lydia's right ankle throbs and she wobbles, just a bit, as she steps her left leg back and bends her knees, finding a spot on the wall, arms outstretched. She rises up on her right leg, left leg coming to passé so her toes are pressed against her right knee, pulls in her core and turns, her head the last thing to snap around.

Marin is watching her as she comes out of the turn, leaning to the left to repeat the combination on the left side. Lydia ignores the burn in her right Achilles' tendon as she jumps, a line of energy stretching out from each toe and fingertip. She lands strong on the grand jeté and does a triple pirouette while Marin stands two feet in front of her, one hand on her hip.

"Better," Marin murmurs, before clapping her hands. "One more time girls."

Lydia glows at the simple praise, ignoring the dirty look Erica shoots her. The second time through Malia falls out of her pirouette and Marin makes them all start over while Malia glowers at the floor, stomping back to her starting position. She's a Hale, technically, although no one is exactly sure _how_ Malia is related to the family. She's always been passed off as a distant cousin, there's a rumor that she didn't even have to audition before getting into the school, showing up one day to join their class halfway through the year when they were all level threes.

Everyone who knows ballet knows that it runs in the blood of all the Hales but still, Malia dances nothing like her cousin Cora, who is all but guaranteed a spot in the company when the semester is over. Malia is strong and full of energy but her technique is sloppy, worst of all she has a temper and tends to get frustrated when she makes mistakes.

Lydia ignores the smirk Allison shoots her in the mirror. She doesn't have time to be silly or worry about the other girls. She's a woman on a mission, every second of every day devoted to ballet, improving her technique, her reputation, proving that she's worthy of a spot in the company. 

There are two open positions available in the company this year for the girls, and since Cora (with her perfect extensions and long slim lines and gorgeous arched feet) is in her year that means there's really only one.

They finish the combination and perform a grand reverence, curtsying to Marin and the accompanist. With that class is officially over; all the girls migrate across the floor where their bags are sitting against the wall.

Lydia plops down on the floor next to Allison, crosses her legs and lifts her right foot onto her left thigh to start untying the ribbons of her shoes.

"Oh my god, I'm _starving_ ," Allison moans. "I can't believe I only have thirty minutes until English, that's barely enough time to shower and change and get to class on time, let alone run down to the cafeteria."

Lydia hums in response and pulls off her pointe shoes, wrapping the ribbons carefully around the arch so they don't get tangled.

"I still can't believe you finished all your academic credits a year early," Allison goes on, trading her pointe shoes for a pair of Ugg boots. "You're so lucky."

Lydia pulls a roll of gauze out of her bag and wraps it around her bleeding pinky toe, tapes it off. "My toes beg to differ."

Allison takes a navy and white striped [sweater](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529026447687) out of her dance bag and pulls it over her leotard. "You want me to grab anything for you?"

"I can get something after Deaton." Lydia tosses her shoes into her dance bag and pulls out an oversized grey [sweater](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529026512619) and her pair of pink scalloped Chloe flats her dad sent her for her birthday last year.

Allison looms over her while she puts on her shoes and tugs her sweater over her head, looking concerned. "Everything okay?"

Lydia takes the hand Allison offers and pulls herself up, shrugging her dance bag over her shoulder. "Just need to ice."

"We're still good for tonight, right?" Allison asks as they walk out of the studio and into the hallway.

Lydia flashes her a tight smile. "I didn't forget."

Allison has been begging her to socialize outside of school and Lydia finally conceded to going out to dinner with her and Scott tonight. Not that Lydia is terribly interested in being a third wheel but she knows it matters to Allison.

Allison waves goodbye and runs off to the back set of stairs to go up to the forth floor to their dorm room. Lydia meanders past Studio D, pausing in the doorway to watch. It's a level eight boy's class, they're doing barrel jumps in a large circle around and around the studio.

"You call those jumps? My nieces' hamster can jump that high!" Finstock is yelling. "You all look pathetic!"

Isaac catches Lydia's gaze coming down from a jump; he winks at her as he jogs past the doorway before leaning over his shoulder and jumping backwards into the air. She turns around and walks to the elevator before Jackson can spot her.

Lydia takes the elevator down to the first floor and walks to the back hallway towards the trainer's office. Deaton has been working for the Hales longer than Lydia's been studying ballet. He has all kinds of degrees hanging on his office wall: sports medicine, kinesiology, chiropractic, acupuncture. She could ice up in her room but Deaton's ice packs are always mysteriously more effective. And she likes the feeling of being sequestered away, twenty minutes of quiet where no one is judging or critiquing her.

Inside the front room of the trainer's office Scott McCall is sitting behind the desk, an open biology textbook in front of him. Scott is Nurse McCall's son, he practically grew up here alongside the students. The Hales wanted him at first, way back when Lydia was a level one, before they realized Scott's asthma outweighed any potential physical ability he may have possessed.

Still, Scott's spent nearly as much time at the Hale School of Ballet as Lydia, and she boards here during the week. He goes to public school, Beacon Hills High, but he comes here every day after school when he doesn't have lacrosse (he can't be very good, Lydia reasons, given the asthma, but inexplicably plays anyway) until his mother, the school's nurse, is off at seven. He started interning for Deaton last year, Allison says Scott is thinking about going into sports medicine or possibly physical therapy.

So Lydia knows Scott, has for a long time, but they're not exactly friends, and her ankle is still throbbing. She clears her throat to alert him to her presence and Scott's head snaps up.

"Hey, Lydia," he says cheerfully. "What's going on?"

"Where's Deaton?" 

Scott smiles apologetically. "Helping my mom, something happened with one of the level two girls."

Lydia winces sympathetically, the girl must have really gotten hurt if it requires Nurse McCall _and_ Deaton. "I just wanted to ice."

"Oh, I can set that up for you." Scott jumps up from his chair with a ridiculously serious expression, like he's totally devoted to assisting her. "Come on back."

She walks around the desk and follows him down the hall to Deaton's exam room. She hops up on the table and toes off her flats while Scott opens a filing cabinet and starts rifling through it.

"Sorry, just a second," he apologizes, digging through folders until he comes up with her file. "I'm supposed to chart everything."

Lydia sits patiently, her right leg stretched out in front of her, watching Scott flip through her file to a blank page and uncap a pen. "Okay," he says. "You said you needed ice, right?"

"Mm-hm."

Scott raises an inquisitive eyebrow. "For your ribs?"

Lydia stiffens, repressing a sudden urge to snatch her file out of his hands. "Ankle."

"Ankle?"

"Right ankle, Achilles' tendon specifically."

"Pain, scale of one to ten?"

She rolls her eyes. "Really?"

Scott looks sheepish. "I'm supposed to ask."

"It just feels a little tender."

"Okay," Scott says easily. He scribbles something in her file before shelving it and opening the mini freezer where Deaton keeps the ice packs.

He makes them himself, Lydia doesn't know what he puts in them but they're not the cheap plastic single use ones Nurse McCall has, or the reusable gel packs sitting in her and Allison's little dorm freezer. Deaton fills individual ziplock bags with crushed ice and a strange mix of herbs, some secret blend, little purple flowers and mossy green buds.

Scott pulls one out of the freezer and gets an ACE bandage out of a cabinet. He hops up onto the foot of the table, free hand hovering above her ankle. "Okay if I wrap it for you?"

"Alright," she says casually, like she doesn't mind, like the idea of him touching her doesn't make her nervous.

Scott nods, picks up her right foot and pulls it into his lap. He slides the ice pack around the back of her ankle and starts to wrap it, his fingers carefully holding her still as he works. It feels almost intimate, the way he's holding her foot, like he's being very careful so as not to hurt her. She doesn't usually let boys touch her like this anymore, not when she could fall right off the table if he's too rough.

But Scott wraps her ankle quickly and professionally, plunks an old fashioned white timer down on the counter and sets it for twenty minutes. "I'll be out front if you need anything," he says, and shuts the door behind him.

Lydia pulls her tablet out of her bag and plugs in her earbuds, slips them into her ears and opens up YouTube. She's been obsessed with one video in particular lately, has been watching it studiously on repeat. It's a taped performance of the Hale Ballet Company, of what was supposed to be the opening ballet of the season - The Little Mermaid, choreographed by the company's artistic director at the time, Peter Hale, staring his niece, principle dancer Laura Hale, as the titular character.

The video is of opening night, the only night the company performed the ballet, back in October. When the show was over, after Laura Hale stood onstage and curtsied to a standing ovation, roses for her thrown onto the stage, she slipped out the stage door, still in her leotard, drove to the burned out husk that used to be her parents' house, and shot herself in the head with a hunting rifle.

It was the largest scandal in company history. The season closed before it even began, for a full week no one knew if the company (and the school) would be shut down altogether. There were rumors of backdoor meetings, panicked donors running. The day after Laura was buried HBC announced that Peter Hale was resigning as artistic director, with Deucalion from Alpha Ballet Academy stepping in as interim director.

They came back two months ago in January with Giselle, a safe crowd pleaser, starring Derek Hale as Duke Albrecht with Braeden, a hastily-promoted soloist, as Giselle. The raves immediately began pouring in: Braeden and Derek's undeniable chemistry, Deucalion's vision and fortitude in the wake of a tragedy. It saved the company, that ballet, but rumors still fly around the school - that Deucalion is a nightmare to work with, that Peter Hale is coming back, that Derek hates them both so much that he's threatening to retire after the season is over.

Lydia jumps the video forward through most of the first act of The Little Mermaid. She's watched it at least twenty times, has the choreography memorized. Onstage Laura is wearing a blue costume made of layers of tulle, a full length tutu, her long brown hair braided back into a bun at the nape of her neck. She flicks back and forth across the stage in her pointe shoes, the soft blue lighting making it look like she's floating through water. She shows off her little human treasures, dances a pas de trois with her fish friends, moves through the space like it's effortless.

The storm comes, flashes of white light crack across her face. Derek as the Prince falls off his ship and into the water with a dramatic jump. The music swells as he and Laura perform a stilted pas de deux, ending as she drags the unconscious prince to shore.

Lydia slides her finger across the screen until she gets to the part she wants to watch: the sea witch, cruelly ripping off the mermaid's tail and revealing her new human legs. Laura's costume is wrenched off her body, leaving her in only a nude colored leotard. Laura writhes, flings her body around with the kind of recklessness that comes from deliberate, careful training, a viscerally painful looking performance as she demonstrates her new human legs to the audience. In the story, every step the mermaid takes cause terrible stabbing pain. Laura's face crumples in agony, a natural emoter, as she rises en pointe and throws her body across the stage, her incredible legs in full extension.

It's the kind of performance you rarely see, a perfect blend of technique and artistry. There are stories of course, rumors, gossip about what really happened, what drove Laura over the edge. So many theories - that she'd never gotten over the fire, that she was depressed. She was on drugs, she was being pushed past her breaking point. Pushed by Peter, who demanded nothing less than perfection. 

Lydia knows some people think Peter's resignation was indicative of guilt, but Laura's death was also considered to be his personal tragedy - the death of his prima, his muse as he often called her, his career plummeting to an early death.

The timer on the counter goes off, a dull buzz layering over the music of Act II. Lydia pulls out her earbuds and puts her tablet away, waiting for Scott. When he doesn't come she unwraps her ankle herself, puts the ice pack in the freezer and steps into her shoes. She opens the exam door and tiptoes into the hallway. "Scott?"

There's a boy sitting in Scott's chair behind the front desk. He doesn't go here, Lydia's never seen him before but he looks to be roughly her age. He's wearing street clothes, jeans and a blue and green plaid flannel. He has headphones clamped over his ears, dark messy hair. Lydia impatiently walks up to the desk and raps loudly with her knuckles. He jumps halfway out of the chair, steadying himself against the desk before reaching up and taking off his headphones. He blinks amber colored eyes at her, his mouth dropping open as he takes her in.

Lydia resists the urge to rolls her eyes at his obvious display of attraction. She doesn't even look good right now, her hair is damp with sweat and pulled tightly back from her face and she's not wearing anything more than tinted moisturizer and brow gel. She's not the same dancer she was last year. She's serious now, she doesn't wear her favorite bright lipstick to class anymore or pack cute outfits to change into so she always looks good walking around school.

The boy is good looking though, she supposes, with those pretty eyes and an upturned nose, long elegant fingers twirling a pen around. But as tempting as he may be Lydia doesn't need the distraction. Not now, when she's so close to getting everything she's ever wanted that she can taste it.

"Who are you?" she asks bluntly. She's on a clock here, she still has to stretch before showering and getting ready to go out with Scott and Allison.

"I'm a friend of Scott's, I'm just holding down the fort for him," he says, sounding maybe a bit nervous. He's probably not even allowed back here.

Lydia sighs and leans forward to rest her elbows on the desk. "Would you happen to know where he went?"

"Yeah," he says, bobbing his head. "He ran to get his mom a change of clothes, a level two got kicked in the head and threw up all over her."

"How the hell did she get kicked in the head?" Lydia asks before she can stop herself. "Did someone grand battement right into her?"

"Uh, I don't really know," he says sheepishly. "I'm assuming a battement is some kind of kick?"

"Mm, technically more of an extension really," Lydia says offhandedly. "Look, will you just tell Scott that Lydia left?"

"Lydia?" he parrots, looking inexplicably pleased at the revelation of her name.

"Martin," she adds, tossing her last name over her shoulder as she hikes her dance bag up over her shoulder and walks out of the office.

It's four in the afternoon, Allison won't be back from her academic classes until almost six. Lydia takes the elevator up to the fourth floor and lets herself into their dorm room. Allison's bed is pushed against the left wall and Lydia's the right, two narrow nightstands between the beds under the window. Lydia takes her yoga mat out from under her bed and unrolls it on the floor between the beds. She puts on her stretching playlist and gets down on the floor, spends almost an hour working on her quads, hamstrings and hips. She feels like jello when she's finished, has to drag herself into the bathroom she shares with Allison on shaking legs.

Lydia peels off her tights and her sweat-soaked leotard, steps out of the bundle of fabric and tosses it into the hamper. Her hair is next, she pulls out all the bobby pins and shakes the damp strands out, turns the shower on and steps inside. She takes her time, letting the hot water sink into her muscles. She washes with her vanilla-lavender body wash, shampoos her hair and applies a deep conditioner, shaves her legs, rinses.

When she gets out of the shower she turns on the fan and plugs in her blow-dryer, dries her hair naked standing over the bathmat. She runs a brush through it once it's dry, braids the top half of it away from her face and ties it off with a clear elastic band. She goes through her usual routine; moisturizer, foundation, concealer, a little blush, eyeliner, mascara and a deep rose matte lipstick.

It's the first week of March, cold in northern California. Lydia wraps herself in a towel and shuffles over to her closet, shivering. She selects a long-sleeved jersey dress roughly the same shade as her lipstick and a pair of grey cable knit tights. She pulls on a nude colored bra and thong before getting dressed and hangs up her towel. When Allison comes back from class Lydia is sitting on the edge of her bed with her Rag and Bone ankle boots on, black knit [coat](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529026625675) spread over her lap, mentally going over the variations she did earlier in class.

"Hey, I just need five minutes," Allison says breathlessly, tossing her book bag on the floor.

Lydia waits while Allison pulls off her sweatshirt and changes into a silky navy blue top and a nicer pair of jeans. Her hair gets brushed out into shoulder-grazing waves. Allison used to wear her hair long and curly but she cut it over the summer and Lydia's still not quite used to it. It's still long enough to pull into a bun, but barely. Allison applies mascara over her desk, squinting at the mirror, and adds a coat of pink lip gloss before sliding her feet into a pair of boots and reaching for her [motorcycle jacket](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529026722057).

"Okay," Allison says, flipping her hair over the collar of her jacket. "Let's go, Scott's going to meet us outside."

Lydia pulls on her coat and flips the lights off before following Allison out of their room, locking the door and slipping the keys into her cross-body bag. They take the elevator down to the first floor and walk down the main hallway to the office. Lydia knocks on the open door before walking inside. "Hey Mom."

Her mother is sitting behind the desk in a frankly terrible floral shift dress, glasses pushed up into her hair. "Oh, hi sweetheart, Allison. Are you two signing out?"

"Yes." _Obviously._

Her mother, oblivious to her attitude, folds her arms over the desk and smiles at her. "Care to tell me where you're going?"

"Mom" -

"Just out to dinner," Allison supplies helpfully.

"Oh, alright." She pushes the sign-out sheet across the desk and Lydia and Allison both sign and date on the dotted line. Her mother will have gone home for the night by the time they get back to school, they'll have to sign back in with whoever is on overnight duty.

Lydia kisses her mother's cheek and follows Allison out of the office, turning around to wave. "Bye Mom."

"Bye Ms. Martin!" Allison shouts from the hallway.

"Allison, makes sure she eats something!" her mother calls out, and shuts her office door behind them.

Lydia's cheeks flame but Allison doesn't seem to notice. They walk through the foyer of the school, the walls covered with photos of the school's former students: Derek, Braeden, Camden Lahey, Kate Argent, Jordan Parrish, students who've gone on to dance with other companies around the country. They took Laura's photo down after she died, which is a shame because it was beautiful- Laura in a white tutu, dancing Odette in Swan Lake.

"Hey, so, one thing," Allison says, pushing through the glass double doors of the front entrance. "Don't be mad, okay?"

Lydia glances sharply at her as she passes through the doorway. "Why, what did you do?"

Allison looks sheepish. "Scott and I thought it would be fun if Stiles came with us."

Lydia wrinkles her nose. "What the hell is a stiles?"

"Uh, that'd be me?" 

Lydia's head whips to the side. It's him, the boy from Deaton's office, Scott's friend. He's leaning up against a blue Jeep parked by the curb, wearing a grey hoody zipped over his flannel shirt. Now that he's standing she can see that he's rather tall and lean looking, but then she thinks about those broad hands and idly wonders what he looks like underneath those layers.

"Hey." Scott's standing next to him, the stupid puppy dog look he always gets around Allison on his face. "Lydia, this is my best friend Stiles."

"We met," Lydia says vaguely, looking pointedly at Allison. Lydia agreed to socialize for a few hours with her friend and her boyfriend, she absolutely did not agree to a double date.

"Oh," Allison says, looking a bit surprised but also pleased. "Well, great then!"

Scott and Allison go through their usual kiss-hug-stare-stupidly-into-each-others-eyes routine while Lydia and Slides stand on the sidewalk next to them. Lydia takes the opportunity to check him out again and promptly gets caught in honey colored eyes. Stiles grins, rolling his eyes in the direction of Scott and Allison. Lydia can't hold back a smirk, secretly delighted to have someone to commiserate with.

"Okay," Stiles says a touch too loudly, clearly for Scott's benefit. "We should really get going, the girls have a curfew."

"Oh right," Scott mumbles, pulling away from Allison with a bashful smile on his face.

Scott and Allison get into the backseat without even letting go of their linked hands. Stiles opens the passenger door for Lydia and she hops up into his Jeep, flashing him a tight smile as he shuts her door for her.

"So where are we going?" Lydia asks, twisting around to look at Allison while Stiles jogs around the front of the car to get into the driver's seat.

"We wanted to try that new Italian place," Allison says casually. "You know, over on Chestnut by the Coffee Bean?"

Lydia swallows, fingers reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear in a nervous twitch before she remembers that it's braided back from her face and drops her hands into her lap. "Okay."

Stiles starts the car and the radio turns on, Top Forty blasting through the speakers. It's a welcome distraction, Lydia turns to the side and stares out the window, Beacon Hills blurring past her as Stiles drives in the direction of downtown. She returns back to class with Marin, mentally going over the variation she didn't quite nail, her hands twitching in her lap as she flexes her right foot inside her boot. 

Stiles parallel parks down the street from the restaurant and they all jump out of the Jeep, Scott and Allison leading the way, Scott's arm slung over her shoulders. Lydia shivers in the cool night air, crossing her arms tightly across her chest as she walks. Stiles catches the door to the restaurant after Scott and Allison go inside and he gestures for Lydia to go ahead of him.

"Thank you," she murmurs, stepping inside behind Allison and breathing in a sigh of relief at the central heating.

They all follow a waitress to a booth on the far side of the restaurant. It's a cute place, little red and white checked tablecloths and soft lighting. It smells like pizza and warm bread, making Lydia's mouth water. Scott and Allison file into one side of the booth, leaving Stiles and Lydia to sit together opposite them. Lydia unbuttons her coat but leaves it pooled around her shoulders, tuning out the boys, who are telling a story about lacrosse practice and some guy named Greenberg. She opens the menu, fingers skittering across the list of appetizers.

A busboy swings by their table with waters for everyone and a basket of breadsticks. Lydia fiddles with her napkin, watching Scott pull two breadsticks out and hand one to Allison. Lydia picks up her glass of water and sips, watching while Allison dips her breadstick into the little dish of olive oil on the table before taking a bite.

"These are so good. Lydia, you have to try one," Allison says brightly, wiping a drip of olive oil off her fingers. Lydia stares at it, watching the little pale green bead shimmer against Allison's white skin.

"Here, we can share one." Stiles reaches across the table for the breadsticks and breaks one in half. "Lydia?"

She startles next to him, reaches out and takes it with a tight smile. She breaks off a tiny piece and puts it in her mouth, sucks until the bread gets soft and mushy before swallowing.

"It's better with olive oil," Allison says, pushing the dish towards her.

Lydia exhales harshly through her nose and smears the tiniest bit of oil onto her breadstick, and pokes Allison with the toe of her boot under the table. Allison pouts and retreats, leaning against Scott to cuddle under his arm. A waitress comes and Lydia goes back to the menu, scanning frantically before ordering a Caesar salad with chicken, dressing on the side. She traces patterns into the condensation of her water glass while everyone else orders, staring down the half-eaten breadstick on her plate.

Scott and Allison share a second breadstick, sitting with Allison's back to his chest, her head tilted up towards him so they can kiss and lick olive oil off each other's lips between bites. It's adorable of course, but also sort of exasperating, being forced to be around something she can't have. Lydia's focused on ballet completely now, she knows how a relationship can cost her everything she's ever dreamed of and she's not willing to risk that.

Not again.

"Hey," Stiles says in a low voice, leaning into her space. "Just so you know I didn't have anything to do with this."

"The blind date or the relentless PDA?" she asks, jabbing at Scott and Allison with her breadstick.

Stiles laughs into his fist. "I hate to break it to you but trust me, there's nothing we can do about that other than ignore it or throw cold water on them."

"I'll keep that in mind," she murmurs. "And just so _you_ know, I didn't have anything to do with this either."

"I don't know if this was intentionally a setup," he muses quietly, leaning back against the booth and turning to face her. "Scott and Allison have talked about you before but he didn't mention you were coming tonight, I was just as surprised as you were."

Lydia raises an eyebrow and takes the bait because lets face it, she'd rather at least attempt to have a conversation with him than watch Scott and Allison kiss like a voyeur. "Scott told you about me?"

Stiles' tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip. "Yeah, he said you've been dancing since you guys were kids, you're pretty serious about ballet, right?"

Lydia nods in confirmation. "My mother works for the company, she got me an audition when I was ten, that's level one for official students. She runs the school's office now."

"Wait, so if your mother works for the school are you from Beacon Hills?"

Lydia shrugs delicately and wraps her coat tighter around herself. "We used to live in San Francisco, it's where the company's based, but my mother is originally from Beacon Hills, she grew up here. When I got accepted into the school they offered to transfer her so she could be close to me. She came and my dad... didn't."

For some reason Stiles' face wrinkles in concern. "Hey, are you cold?"

"I'm fine," she says quickly, and peeks up at him flirtatiously through her eyelashes. "You know, this is very unfair. I know absolutely nothing about you."

"Eh, what's to know? I'm a Beacon Hills native, I live with my dad, and I play lacrosse with Scott. I love curly fries, science fiction and long walks on the beach. Back to you."

"Careful," she teases lightly. "This is starting to feel like a date."

His eyes drop briefly to her lips and something in her stomach twists. "Would that be so bad?"

Their food arrives before she has to give him an answer. Lydia focuses on drizzling the little ceramic cup of dressing over her salad while Scott and Allison break apart so Allison can dig a fork into her fettuccine alfredo. Scott and Stiles are both eating pizzas, puddles of grease pooling over the melted cheese. Lydia spears a piece of chicken with her fork and chews furiously, counts to ten and swallows. Takes a sip of water. Another bite of chicken. Count to ten. Swallow. Repeat. 

"Lydia?"

She startles, head snapping up to look at Allison, who has her eyebrows raised impatiently. "What?"

"I said, do you want to try my pasta?"

"No thanks."

Allison tugs on the ends of her hair and frowns, like she forgot she doesn't have long curls to twist around her fingers anymore. "Are you sure?"

"I'm fine, thank you." Lydia stabs a piece of romaine with her fork for emphasis.

Allison makes an obvious face of annoyance and Lydia glares at her across the table until Allison slouches back and shoots her a _fine, but we're talking about this later_ kind of look. She doesn't push Lydia again though, lets her eat her salad in piece while everyone else devours their dairy-covered carbohydrates. There's a weird tussle for the check when it comes, Scott is insistent on paying for himself and Allison, while Allison blushes and protests while looking immensely pleased.

Lydia rolls her eyes and takes her credit card out of her wallet and throws it on top of Scott's cash. "Can you split the bill please?" she requests to the waitress, who nods and dashes off to run her card.

Stiles starts to splutter in protest and Lydia leans back out of the way of his waving hands. "It's fine, my dad pays for it. Seriously, it's not a big deal."

"I guess l owe you then," he says.

Lydia pauses, taking a second to note the challenge in his eyes. "Hmm, I guess so."

The waitress comes back with her card and Lydia calculates the tip by hand before signing. Jackets get put on, Lydia slides her arms through her coat sleeves and does up the buttons as she follows everyone else through the restaurant and back outside. 

"It's only eight," Allison says, checking the time on her phone. "You guys want to take a walk or something?"

Lydia knows exactly what's she's doing - they have an hour until they have to be back at their dorm unless they're willing to risk getting written up, which Lydia definitely is not; Allison's running down the clock. Lydia bounces on the balls of her feet, her fingers jammed into her coat pockets.

"You guys go ahead, I wanted to get a cup of coffee," Stiles says, tilting his head in the direction of the Coffee Bean across the street from the restaurant.

"I'll go with you," Lydia volunteers. "I could use some coffee."

"Meet you by the car in forty?" Scott suggests.

"Don't you crazy kids lose track of time," Stiles warns, voice sharp with sarcasm.

Allison giggles and starts to walk, looping her arm around Scott's waist and turning over her shoulder to wave. Lydia waves back and falls in step with Stiles, heading towards the intersection in the opposite direction to cross the street.

"Nicely done," he says. "Those two have some serious kissing to get out of their system."

"You set me up well," she admits. 

"We make a good team," he comments.

Lydia tilts her head in consideration, stopping at the edge of the sidewalk at the red light. "I suppose so."

The light changes and she and Stiles step out into the street. She can feel his hand hovering over the small of her back as they cross the intersection, protective but not possessive. She leans back, just enough to feel the solid weight of his palm, and Stiles pulls his hand away like he's been caught.

She smiles to herself. She can't help but think that it's cute, that he's obviously interested but so restrained, like he's unsure of where her boundaries are and he doesn't want to overstep.

Stiles opens the door to the coffee shop for her and Lydia steps inside, waiting for him to come in before walking up to the counter. Stiles orders drip coffee and Lydia does the same; he pulls his wallet out with one hand and gestures to her with the other.

"On me. I owe you, remember?" he says, raising a stern eyebrow at her.

"Okay, I get it," she says lightly. "You're a Lannister, noted."

Stiles pockets his change and grins, taking both cups of coffee from the barista and handing one to her. "Well, I don't want to fuck my non-existent sister, but points for the reference."

Lydia follows him to the milk station, scanning the metal canisters for nonfat milk. "Brothers?"

"Only Scott, if that counts. You?"

Lydia pours a generous amount of nonfat into her coffee and stirs in two packets of Splenda. "Only child."

Stiles sips his coffee black. "Isn't it great?"

"Which part? Having all your parents' hopes and dreams pinned on you, or the constant scrutiny?"

"Don't forget not having anyone to blame when you get into trouble." He ambles towards the counter over by the windows and Lydia follows him, taking his hand when he offers it palm up to hop onto a stool next to him.

"So don't get into trouble," Lydia says breezily. 

Stiles chuckles. "Yeah, can't quite seem to avoid it. I'm kind of a magnet for trouble."

Lydia glances at him out of the corner of her eye. "Really?"

He reaches one long leg out to rest on the rung of her stool. "Yeah. I just can't help myself, I guess."

She raises an eyebrow and smiles, fiddling with the cardboard sleeve of her cup. "I'll keep that in mind."

He leans forward a little, resting his elbow on the counter. "Careful," he says in a low voice. "This is starting to feel like a date."

Her smiles slips off her face. It's one thing to play for her own amusement but she's starting to realize that she _likes_ him. He's Scott's best friend, which is enough to be a ringing endorsement, because Scott is, well, _Scott_. He's witty. He's opened a door for her three times so far tonight without even seeming to notice, like it's just something that he does. He has beautiful hands and a bright smile and eyes that make her feel seen in a way she isn't used to.

He's a nightmare.

"Look," she says, straightening her spine. "I have a plan, okay?"

Stiles cocks an eyebrow. "Okay...?"

"Casting for the student showcase goes up in two weeks," she explains. "And I'm going to get a leading part."

His lips turn up in a hint of a smile. "I'm sure you will."

"My entire future in ballet depends on how I dance in the showcase. Everyone important will be there, it's a huge part of whether or not the company chooses to accept me. I can probably get an audition with San Francisco or Salt Lake City if I have to but I want to dance for the Hales, I always have. This is everything that I've been training for since I was a little kid, I can't afford to be distracted. This can't... this can't be a date, Stiles."

For some reason he's still smiling, like she didn't just reject him to his face. "We're just having coffee Lydia, it's not like I'm proposing here."

"Good," she says haughtily. "Because I'm not even considering marriage until after I'm a principle dancer. Ballerinas have short careers even if they're lucky, I'll have plenty of time to plan a wedding after I retire."

He snorts into his coffee. "Good to know you've thought this all out."

She stiffens, pulling away. "Are you making fun of me?"

"What? No!" Stiles leans forward and lays his hand over her wrist. "Lydia, it's awesome that you care so much about ballet. I don't know if I love anything like that, except for Scott and my dad, I guess. Seriously, I can't even imagine how hard you must have worked to be where you are right now. I'd never make fun of that. Of you."

She stares down where his long fingers are curled around her wrist, heat from his palm sinking into her skin. It's too much, the blatant honesty, his earnestness. "Do you think we could just sit here for a little while?" she asks softly. "Would that be okay?"

"Sure, Lydia," he says gently. "Whatever you want."

She flashes him a smile and ducks her head but doesn't pull her hand away from where it's pinned under his. She watches their reflection in the window as they drink their coffee, looking for all the world like two teenagers out on a date, until it's time to walk back to the car and they leave, Stiles' hand still wrapped loosely around her wrist.


	2. pirouettes and partnering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case Chapter 1 wasn't enough of a tip off there's going to be quite a lot of ballet in this so if you're here for Stydia I beg for your patience. It's coming ;)

The level eight girls' class schedule this semester is as rigid as ever but [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529027591127) still skims over her planner in the cafeteria while sipping her coffee and eating a Greek yogurt for breakfast. It's a typical Friday, so her day looks like this:

  * 9-11am technique
  * 11-11:20am water break
  * 11:20-12pm pointe
  * 12-1:30pm lunch
  * 1:30-3pm partnering



Academic classes are held in the afternoon but since Lydia finished her credits last spring she's done for the week after partnering class. She gets up from her seat at 8:45, trashes her half-eaten yogurt and walks out of the cafeteria. She takes the elevator up to the third floor and heads down the hallway towards studio B, stopping when she sees [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529027912720) running down the hall, her dance bag slapping against her hip, a half-eaten protein bar clutched in one hand.

"You know, if you didn't get up so freaking early every day we could walk together," Allison says breathlessly, and crams the rest of her bar in her mouth.

"It's not my fault you're incapable of waking up before eight," Lydia teases. She gets up at seven every day so she can use the school's gym to walk on the treadmill and warm up before she goes to the cafeteria.

Allison chews furiously in front of the door (there's a strict no food policy inside the studio), swallows and gestures for Lydia to follow her inside. Cora and Malia are already here, sprawled out on their stomachs in the center, lazily stretching. Kira's sitting cross-legged next to her bag sewing a pair of ribbons on her pointe shoes and Erica's slumped over the barre half-heartedly warming up her feet.

"I heard she and Boyd went to Jungle last night with Isaac," Allison says quietly, tilting her head at Erica, walking along the side of the studio and dropping her bag down a few feet away from Kira.

"Idiot," Lydia mutters, placing her bag down next to Allison's. Everyone knows Jungle doesn't card but drinking the night before a full day of class is just asking for it.

"Last night was fun, right?" Allison steps out of her sweatpants and pulls her sweatshirt over her head.

"Sure." Lydia sits down on the floor and pulls out her hair bag, unzips it and takes out a pack of bobby pins.

"Stiles is nice, isn't he?" Allison pulls her water bottle out of her dance bag and takes a sip, caps it and places it against the wall next to her bag. "He and Scott have been best friends since they were like six, it's so cute."

"I guess." Lydia puts a few pins in her mouth, reaches up and twists her ponytail around and around its base, pinning as she works until her hair is secured in a tight bun.

"I'm just saying," Allison says casually, bending upside down to gather her hair into a short ponytail before looping a hair tie around it to form a makeshift bun. "If you like him we could hang out again, you know, the four of us."

"He's alright." Lydia pulls her canvas ballet slippers out and puts them on, stretches her legs out in front of her and flexes her feet.

Allison raises an eyebrow. "Just alright?"

Lydia glares at her. "Don't push it, okay?"

"I'm just saying, you guys looked cute together. You'd be cute together." 

Lydia points her toes slowly, articulating through her feet. "I really don't need any distractions right now."

Allison sighs heavily and flops down on the floor to pull on her slippers. "We're seniors, remember? Don't you want to have a little fun before we graduate?"

Lydia pushes the soles of her feet against Allison's and leans over her legs, her head hanging down towards her knees. "No, I want to get a good role in the showcase, kick ass onstage, and get into the company."

"Lydia." Allison mimics the stretch, leaning down so her belly is pressed against her thighs, and tilts her chin up to give Lydia her best pouty face.

"Don't you look at me like that, Allison Argent." Lydia comes up from her stretch and twists to the side. Her ribs have never been the same since last year, she can feel the cartilage pull along the right side as she stretches.

Allison sighs and reaches out to cup Lydia's knee. "I just don't want you to let him ruin everything for you."

Lydia flinches a little, unwinds and twists the opposite way to stretch her left side. "That's not what this is about."

Allison shoots her a look like she doesn't believe her even a little bit, but then Marin breezes into the studio, the accompanist right behind her, and they both jump up, straightening their things and walking to the center of the studio.

"Good morning ladies." Marin is wearing her usual uniform, a long sleeved black leotard and a floor length skirt, plum chiffon today, her curtain of dark hair tucked behind her ears. "Well, what are you waiting for? Let's begin."

Everyone runs to join Erica at the barre installed along the back wall. Lydia stands behind Allison, left hand resting lightly on the barre, waiting for the pianist to begin. They all take the first eight count to prepare, pulling in their cores and turning out, heels pressed together in first position. Marin's had them do the same barre sequence all year, occasionally throwing in a variation just to keep them on their toes, but generally it's always the same, enough for Lydia to trust her muscle memory of what's up next, allowing her focus to be solely on her technique.

They start with pliés of course, like every ballet class. Two demi pliés, knees bent over their toes, and one grand, heels peeling off the floor as they drop straight down, keeping their pelvises in alignment as they straighten their legs to come back up. They repeat in the sequence in second, third and fifth position, soutenu, a quick turn-around on demi-pointe, to repeat it all on the other side. Soutenu again, then tendus, warming up their feet.

Lydia draws invisible lines along the floor with her working leg, going through her mental checklist as she works: toes pointed, legs straight (but not locked), neutral pelvis, core pulled in, shoulders back, energy through the arm. They move on to degegges, brushing their working legs off the floor, all under Marin's hyper-observant gaze. There's a cambre, front and back, at the end of the combination. Lydia bends forward at the waist, legs straight, head dropping towards the floor, arm curved, fingers brushing the tops of her feet, before straightening back up and bending backwards.

Her right side pulls along her ribs as she stretches back. Lydia exhales sharply, trying not to let the pain show on her face. She grips the barre and tries to release into the arch, opening her chest and letting her head fall back in line with her arm. Her abs burn as she comes back up, even though her rib injury is almost a year old she still feels it, has to use more of her core muscles to stabilize herself than she used to.

They get off the barre after an hour and move to the floor. They stagger in the center, three girls in front and three girls behind them. Erica doesn't try to fight Lydia for her spot today, slinking behind her and Allison to stand in the space between them. Cora's on Lydia's other side, her long dark hair coiled neatly in a bun at the nape of her neck, face placid and alert. Cora is the standard all the other girls in their year hold themselves to, with that perfect body, slim but strong, and her fierce, steely determination that makes her a Hale.

They start preparing for pirouettes, moving into fourth position, right foot in front, about a foot's distance apart from the left, turned out. As the piano comes in they rise up on demi-point, right leg coming up to passé, knee bent, leg turned out, right toes pressed against the inside of their left legs. They hold there for an eight count before coming down, switching feet to do it again.

Turns are about balance and strength, but there's a mental element as well. Lack of focus can easily mean the difference between a clean turn and falling out of one. Not only do pirouettes require strong legs and a strong core, they require strong _faith_ \- the belief that you are invincible, that you can spin like the little plastic ballerina on the lid of your music box, balanced ethereally on the toe box of your pointe shoe.

The music stops with a wave of Marin's hand. In this room Marin is everything, she commands the music and the movement with a flick of her fingertips. She holds their futures in the palm of her hand, she requires sacrifice: bloody toes and torn ligaments, tears and sweat and occasionally vomit, absolute devotion to a goddess who deigns to utter praise maybe once a year.

Ballet isn't for the weak.

"Moving on. Single, single, double, en dehors." Marin says, her eyes glittering. "Mademoiselle Reyes, would you mind demonstrating?"

Lydia and Allison each step to the side, making space for Erica to come into the center spot. She looks terribly hungover, she obviously didn't wash her hair before tying it back and her skin is too pale, but her lips are painted red like always and she has a look of total determination on her face. Erica sets herself up, getting into forth position. She bends her knees and glances at Marin, who's standing right in front of her with her arms crossed.

"Whenever you're ready," Marin says dryly.

Erica's head twitches and she exhales hard, stretches her arms out and snaps up, whipping around for a single pirouette and landing perfectly, stretching her working leg back behind herself to touch the floor before going right back up for another single. Again, she comes out of the turn clean and does a double, two full revolutions, head snapping around twice as she spots, before coming down into a wide forth, stretching her arms out, a relieved little smile on her face.

Marin looks unimpressed. "Left side."

A little flicker of worry passes over Erica's face but she quickly brings her left foot in front and turns, only slightly less steady but that's normal, lots of dancers are stronger on the right. She completes the double, finishes and closes her feet to fifth, bows her head and starts to move back to her place in the second line.

Marin clicks her tongue and Erica freezes along with the rest of them, who've all been waiting for this, the moment when Erica realizes what's really going on.

"Again," Marin says.

"But"- Erica clamps her mouth shut, looking ill.

"If you aren't prepared to work then don't come to my class," Marin reprimands. "Do it again."

Erica swallows audibly and returns to the center spot, facing the mirror, standing in forth position. She somehow manages to get through all the pirouettes again, both sides, looking like she might cry with relief when she nails her last double.

"Now en dedans," Marin says coolly.

Erica's pallor is starting to turn slightly green but never the less she gets back into fourth position and goes into the pirouettes, turning inwards instead of out, single, single, double. She doesn't have to be told to do both sides this time, just slides her left foot up to meet the right in fifth position before doing a tendu to the side with her right leg and bringing it back to forth position to repeat the pirouettes on the left.

Erica doesn't make the double this time, comes down from relevé too soon and falls out of the turn before she can complete the second revolution. She freezes, her lips pressed tightly together.

"You're excused," Marin says softly, and Erica claps a hand over her mouth and runs out of the studio.

Marin snaps her attention back to Lydia and the other girls, who are all standing there frozen, a strange mix of sympathy and disdain for Erica heavy in the air. They've all been there, have watched each other struggle to get through technique hungover, spontaneously burst into tears after a bad class, gotten their period and bled through their leotard, witnessed everyones' little humiliations throughout the years.

They get through the rest of class working in relative silence. Lydia can feel the stakes rising, with Erica down there's only five of them competing for Marin's attention. There isn't a formal audition for the student showcase, just an evaluation during class. Casting is done by their teachers so every day is like an audition, a chance to prove yourself, demonstrate that you can dance better than the girl next to you who wants it just as badly.

They end at eleven, picking up their bags and going out into the hallway. They have a short break before pointe, not enough time to go anywhere so they all usually just collapse on the floor outside the studio until it's time to go back in. Erica's sitting against the wall, sipping a bottle of water, all of her makeup wiped off. She looks better, a little embarrassed grin on her face as they all join her on the floor.

Lydia sits down next to Allison, across from Erica, and takes off her slippers, puts them away and pulls on a pair of thick leg warmers. The other girls sit down on the floor with them, forming a loose circle, Kira sitting in the space between Erica and Lydia, and Malia and Cora opposite Kira and next to Allison. Lydia takes out a plastic baggie of baby carrots from her dance bag and pops one in her mouth before passing the bag to Allison, who takes three and gives the bag to Malia, who turns her nose up and hands it over to Cora.

"Thanks Lydia," Cora says, withdrawing a handful, and gives her the half-empty bag back, ignoring Kira, who's sitting quietly on the floor pointing her toes, staring down at her knees.

Kira's new, she transferred here from New York last year. She's nice, a little awkward. If it was a different situation, regular high school, Lydia might pity her, teach her how to walk in heels and talk to the boys without blushing horribly. But it's not regular high school, this is the Hale Ballet Company School of Ballet, one of the best places to train in the country, the school feeds right into the company.

Lydia isn't here to make friends.

They file back in at 11:15, everyone opens their bags and puts their pointe shoes on. Marin raises an eyebrow at Erica, who lifts her chin and rises up onto relevé casually, alternating feet, like she didn't have to run out of technique an hour ago. Lydia carefully ties her ribbons and gets up, does a few bourrées to one side and then the other before coming down.

They all walk back to the center for an adagio. Allison groans quietly and Lydia shoots her a sharp look in the mirror. Adagios are slow combinations with a focus on balance and extension; they require significant control and grace to execute. Lydia rolls her shoulders back, ignoring the twinge in her side, watching Marin as she glides in front of them to give the combination.

"From fifth position on the right, develeppé, croisé devant," Marin instructs.

Lydia steps into fifth, turning her right leg out and pressing her heel against her left toes. Everyone angles their bodies slightly towards the left corner because croisé means crossed, from the audiences' perspective it looks like their legs are crossed, working leg in front. Lydia flicks her right wrist out for the developpé, marking the combination with her hands. 

"Step forward onto the right, left leg in arabesque, penché, close to fifth."

Lydia slides forward onto her right leg, pointing her left behind her, dipping slightly to mimic the penché before stepping into fifth.

"Retiré en face, develeppé a la second, lower to sur le cou-de-pied, elevé, pas de bourrée."

Lydia marks the develeppé to the side and does the pas de bourrée, making sure she ends in the correct position.

"All the way through, then repeat on the left," Marin says. "Got it?"

Everyone nods and gets into fifth croise, waiting eight counts as the piano begins to play. They start with a developpé to the front; Lydia brings her right leg up from the floor, knee bent, and slowly straightens her leg to extend it out in front of herself. She brings it down just as slowly, stepping forward onto her right leg and lifting her left leg behind herself for the arabesque.

Lydia's careful to keep her hips square as she raises her left leg up, doesn't cheat by opening up her hips to get a higher extension. She tilts her head towards the mirror to check herself: straight hips, straight legs, straight torso, her body a series of beautiful lines, her left toe pointing up towards the ceiling. 

Lydia lowers her eyes to a spot on the floor for the penché keeping her chin and chest up as she begins to dip her torso towards the floor. She squeezes her core, keeping her back straight as she gets closer to the ground, her leg going higher and higher behind her until she gets all the way down, face hovering above the floor and her left leg extended almost 180 degrees in the air.

She comes back up, slowly, slowly, carefully lowering her elevated leg as she pulls her torso up, feeling her right oblique ache, pain radiating down into her psoas, one of her bigger hip flexors. She exhales slowly as she lowers her left foot to the floor and closes into fifth before bringing her right knee up and slowly extending her leg to the side. Her right side burns, she points her right foot as hard as she can and focuses on pulling her core muscles in towards her spine, her quad shaking as she lowers her leg, right foot wrapping around the back of her left leg, just under her calf.

The worst is over now, she feels herself relax as she rises en pointe and does a pas de bourrée to the right before finishing in fifth. They all repeat the adagio on the left, muscling through the combination until it's over. They move on to jumps from the corner, Lydia lets go of the control needed for the adagio as she moves, relishing the feeling of hovering in the air, body pumping with endorphins, the pain fading from her awareness as she flies across the floor.

She's in a good mood when class ends. She danced well, not perfectly, but she didn't make any mistakes either. Her side hurts but it didn't affect her technique, she didn't have to modify anything. Her teachers are all aware of her injury of course, but it's old news, it happened almost a year ago. She has to prove that she's recovered; no one will take a dancer dealing with a serious injury, regardless of their technique. 

She walks out with Allison, hovering in the hallway outside the studio. "Do you want first shower?" Lydia offers.

Allison shakes her head, reaching up to pull her bun out. "I'm starving, I'm gonna get lunch first."

"Okay. See you at partnering?"

"Sounds good." Allison gives her a quick hug and runs down the hallway to catch up with Cora and Malia to take the elevator down to the cafeteria.

Lydia takes the stairs up one floor and lets herself into her dorm room, locking the door behind her. She strips off her leotard and tights and takes a quick shower, scrubbing with soap so she smells good for partnering. She doesn't have time to wash and dry her hair so she deconstructs her bun when she's out of the shower and sprays dry shampoo at the roots, whips her brush through her hair. She changes into a fresh leotard, goes back into the bathroom and French braids her hair tightly, winds the end of the braid around into a bun under her right ear and slides a few pins into it.

Lydia steps into a pair of slim cut grey marled sweatpants and pulls a pale pink cashmere [sweater](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529086925076) over her leotard. She sits down on the floor and goes through her dance bag, making sure she has everything she needs before she goes back out: her phone, student ID, gauze, athletic tape, sewing kit, hair bag jammed full of extra hair pins and elastics, brush, and a mini can of hair spray, lip balm, leg warmers, socks, canvas ballet slippers, pointe shoes, backup pair of pointe shoes, extra pair of tights, band-aids, bottle of ibuprofen, water bottle, tablet, headphones, book.

She turns the lights off and walks out of her dorm room, talks the elevator down to the first floor and goes across the building to the small cafeteria where they eat all their meals. She scans the tables quickly - most of the boys are here, Jackson and Danny are sitting with Isaac and Boyd, Erica perched on Boyd's lap, nibbling what looks like a piece of dry toast. She spies Allison sitting with Cora and Malia, plates full of half-eaten sandwiches and fries in front of them.

Lydia gets in line behind a few level six boys, Liam and Mason, she thinks their names are. Lydia ignores the burgers, potatoes wedges, paninis, waits for the boys to load up their plates up before walking down to the salad bar. She picks up a bowl and fills it with spinach, sliced cucumbers, mushrooms, cherry tomatoes, and cubes of tofu. She pours exactly two tablespoons of balsamic vinaigrette over the salad and takes it to the cashier, who swipes her ID and nods her along.

Allison runs over to her as Lydia's considering where to sit, grease and salt clinging to her upper lip. "Hey, I'm gonna go shower, here, I saved you a cookie. See you in class!"

Allison squeezes her arm and runs off, following Cora and Malia out of the cafeteria. Lydia stares down at her tray, where Allison has deposited a plastic wrapped chocolate chip cookie the size of her entire hand. Lydia sighs and walks over to where Kira is sitting alone, sipping a mug of tea, a half-eaten panini on her plate, reading what looks like a manga comic.

Lydia hovers by the chair opposite her, waiting for Kira to look up, and when she doesn't Lydia pulls the chair out and sits down. Kira's head snaps up, looking surprised and a little defensive. "Hey, Lydia."

Lydia raises an amused eyebrow. "Care if I sit?"

Kira's eyes go wide. "No, go ahead."

Lydia opens her bag and pulls out her battered copy of Le Petit Prince on the table, reading in French as she stabs her fork at her salad and begins to eat. The nice thing about Kira is that she's easygoing, she won't talk Lydia's ear off or gossip incessantly. Lydia chews slowly as she reads, studiously avoiding looking at Kira's plate, where melted strings of cheese are coiled in a pile of grease.

Kira finishes before Lydia, she collects her things and stands up from the table, giving her a shy little wave as she walks away. Lydia gets about halfway through her spinach leaves, eats all the tofu out of her salad, then the cucumber, and finishes her water before putting her book back in her bag. She gets up from the table and trashes the rest of her salad, throws the unwrapped cookie into the garbage without a second thought.

Partnering is taught in Studio D, one the bigger studios on the fourth floor, the back wall made up of floor to ceiling windows. Lydia's the last to come in, she walks down the side of the studio and steps out of her sweatpants, pulls off her sweater and smooths a hand over her braided bun. She yanks on a pair of tights and gets down on the floor, folds her clothes and stuffs them into her dance bag, takes out her pointe shoes and gets them on before joining her fellow dancers in the center.

Partnering is the only class they consistently have with the boys this year. Technique is taught with boys and girls combined into one class sometimes but this year they're separated, they only dance together in partnering and when they have the occasional master class. Most of them have had the same partners for years and years, it takes time to build up the kind of trust that's required. Lydia used to be partnered with Jackson, ever since level three, when they first started partnering class, but after last spring they don't dance together anymore. When they came back this year in the fall Lydia got paired with Aiden and Jackson got put with Kira.

Lydia tries not to look in his direction, where Jackson is standing off in a corner with Danny, Cora and Ethan. They're getting good at this, ignoring each other, pretending last year never happened. In some ways it was worse for him but she's too bitter to care.

She almost lost everything because of him.

Lydia doesn't mind working with Aiden though. He's a good height and build for her, a little cocky but she gets it, she likes to get noticed too, it works for her. She can't deny that they look good together; Aiden is strong and masculine, all muscles and a sharp jaw, a wicked little smile. Lydia likes how she looks when she's standing next to him, delicate and elegant. 

Erica's sitting on Boyd's shoulder, messing around, hooking her knees around his shoulders to flip backwards, giggling as Boyd walks around the studio, his large hands wrapped around her ankles. Allison and Isaac are laying on the floor, his head in her lap, Allison's fingers playing idly with his curls. They've been partnered together since Isaac joined them in level four. Isaac is a bit like Malia, he just showed up one year with no explanation, quiet and skittish, escorted to his first class by Derek Hale of all people.

He's Camden's brother, one of the school's former star students. Isaac doesn't have Camden's magnetism and star presence but he works hard and he's talented, he comes out of his shell when he's dancing. He boards at the school full time, like Allison, even though he's from Beacon Hills. Lydia isn't sure why exactly but they've all heard the rumors about his family, how Mr. Lahey feels about boys who do ballet.

Jennifer Blake, their partnering teacher, comes in, wearing a navy and white printed dress and character shoes, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. They've been working on assisted turns lately, they all line up with their partners across the center of the studio, facing the mirror.

Aiden grins at her as Lydia steps up in front of him. In the mirror she can see Erica pouting miserably at the impending doom of more pirouettes, leaning back against Boyd and giving him all her weight. Lydia steps into forth position, waiting for Aiden to get into place behind her, his hands coming to her abdomen.

Lydia gets hit with an unexpected sense memory, Stiles' hand on her wrist, long fingers curled around her, and she shivers, remembering the warmth of his skin against hers, how safe she felt next to him. She shakes her head slightly, trying to push away the image of warm amber eyes.

This was exactly what she was talking about this morning with Allison. Stiles is a distraction that she cannot afford, regardless of his pretty eyes and warm smile and stupidly sexy hands.

Aiden tips his head down so his lips are close to her ear. "You good?" he asks in a low voice.

Lately there's been a spark between them when they're working together. It's one of those things that just happens sometimes, a certain chemistry that grows out of hours and hours of dancing together, faking romance onstage, touching each other in places usually reserved for a lover. Nothing's ever come out of it other than playful flirting; after last year Lydia knows better, keeps her partnering relationship with Aiden firmly separated from the rest of her life.

Lydia nods and rises up en pointe, arms rounded in front of herself, right leg coming up into retiré, knee bent, toes pressed against the side of her left leg, just above her kneecap. Aiden spins her with his hands and Lydia turns, whipping her head around to spot. She focuses on keeping her standing leg strong, core tight, letting Aiden control the speed of her body, balanced precariously on her pointe shoe.

When she comes down Aiden frowns, tugging her around by the wrist to face him. Lydia yanks her hand away, scowling. "What?"

He crosses his arms across his chest accusingly. "You're not pulling up enough."

"I am so," she retorts childishly, feeling stung. It's one thing to be corrected by a teacher but it can be mildly humiliating to get corrected by a partner.

He shakes his head, holding his right hand palm up to her. "Up, relevé, come on."

Lydia glances back at Jennifer but she's working with Cora and Danny. Jennifer, like the rest of the teaching staff, is strict but she gives them more room to work on their own, moving around from pair to pair as they work. Lydia steps into fifth, lays her hand over Aiden's and rises up en pointe.

Aiden's free hand comes to her right side and Lydia flinches, almost coming down from en pointe on accident, the cardinal sin of partnering (aside from doing something really terrible, like, say, dropping your partner). He raises a smug eyebrow at her and she glowers, straightening her legs and rising fully back up. She tightens her core, pushing down through her feet and pulling up from deep in her pelvis, opposing forces, stretching through her torso.

"Come on," Aiden says, his hand spread under her ribcage. "Pull up."

"I am," she hisses through gritted teeth.

Aiden doesn't move his hand but his thumb strokes lightly, her muscles trembling under his touch. "I thought you weren't having problems with this anymore."

"I'm not," she lies.

Aiden snorts, dropping their linked hands, and Lydia comes down from relevé.

"It's fine," she says firmly. "It's not a big deal."

"You keep telling yourself that," he says sarcastically, but they get through class without him giving her any more unsolicited corrections.

Lydia takes her time walking back up to her room after class, all her muscles aching. She takes her second shower of the day and changes into street clothes, a cream knit sweater [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529094060690) and a pair of thick grey tights. She grabs her blue ikat printed Splendid weekender bag from her closet and throws her curling iron into it along with her hair brush, cosmetics bag, Nikes, a clean pair of Toesox, her laptop, a heavy grey scoop neck sweater, her cross-body bag, a few pairs of leggings, and all her various chargers. She steps into her pair of Rag and Bone ankle boots, slings her dance bag and the weekender over her shoulder and grabs her coat before leaving her room.

She takes the elevator down to the first floor, walking down the hallway towards the office, awkwardly balancing in her heeled boots as her dance bag slides down her arm and catches in the crook of her elbow. Scott McCall comes around the corner walking towards her, heading in the direction of Deaton's office. He's wearing jeans and a burgundy sweatshirt with _Beacon Hills LAX Team_ printed across the chest in white block letters, his backpack slung over one shoulder.

"Hey Lydia," he says, stopping in the middle of the hallway. "You done for the weekend?"

"Yeah." She hitches her weekender higher up on her shoulder before it can slip down her arm along with her dance bag.

Scott smiles and steps forward, effortlessly taking her dance bag from where it's dangling from her elbow. "You're going to the office, right?"

"Thank you, yes," she says politely, feeling a little off-center, the way Scott always makes her feel when he does something exceptionally nice, like carry her bag for her even though they're barely friends.

"So," he says, following her towards the office. "Would you care if I gave Stiles your number?"

"What?" she asks, and stumbles over nothing, she has to reach out and catch herself on Scott's shoulder, blushing furiously.

"You okay?" Scott asks, immediately looking concerned.

"I'm fine," she mutters, pulling away. "Why?"

"Uh..." Scott's forehead wrinkles in a way that is admittedly totally adorable. "I just thought we're all like, friends now, right? And if we all have each other's numbers we can hang out and stuff! Like last night, that was fun, wasn't it?"

Lydia can't help herself, there's just something so earnest and sweet about Scott that's impossible to say no to. "Alright."

"Oh cool, I'll uh, text him." They've reached the office, Scott smiles and hands her back her dance bag. "Have a good weekend!"

"You too," she says faintly, watching him walk back down the hallway.

She hangs out in the office while her mother takes phone calls. Lydia puts in her headphones and watches Laura Hale dance the second act of The Little Mermaid on her tablet again, studying the way Laura moves, how she makes every single combination look effortless. Lydia marvels at that, how perfect she was, how tragic it is, to lose a talent like that, so young and full of promise.

Lydia leaves school with her mother at six-thirty, when the office closes for the weekend. They walk to the parking lot together while Lydia buttons her coat with one hand, idly wishing Scott was still around to offer assistance, and gets into the passenger seat of her mother's car, her bags stacked on the floor under her feet.

"Thai?" her mother asks, handing over her phone.

Lydia places their order online while her mother drives and waits in the car outside the restaurant when her mom runs in to get the food. Her phone buzzes, she glances down and she has a text from an unknown number. Lydia unlocks her phone to read the text, her lips curving up into a private little smile as she reads: _Hey Lydia, it's Stiles, hope it's cool Scott gave me your number_. 

She stares down at the message, finally settling for casual, and texts back _hey_ before pressing _create new contact_ and saving his number under _Stiles_. Her mother comes back to the car with a bag of takeout tucked under her arm and Lydia puts her phone away, the rich smell of the food making her dizzy.

She follows her mom into the living room when they get home, setting everything up on the coffee table. Her mother turns on Bravo and they watch the latest episode of The Real Housewives while they eat. Lydia has a bowl of tom kah kai soup, a light coconut based broth with lemongrass and chicken. Lydia swirls her spoon around, picks out all the chunks of chicken and eats them first before slowly sipping the broth, making it last as long as possible.

Her mother is eating pad see ew and drinking a large glass of Chardonnay. When a commercial comes on she mutes it and turns to Lydia, wine glass cradled in her hand. "Everything going okay with partnering?"

Lydia stares down at her soup, hating how her mom always seems to know what's going on with her whether she wants her to or not. "Everything's fine, Mom."

"I'm just wondering if they were really making the right decision pairing you with Aiden"-

"I like dancing with Aiden."

"I know honey but you know how he is, I really think that you should be with a partner who makes you look as good as possible, someone who really shows you off"-

"Like Jackson did?" Lydia snaps.

Her mother's lips pinch together. "It's been a year, sweetheart. Casting goes up in two weeks"-

"I _know_ that." Lydia gets up from the couch, placing her bowl on the coffee table. "I'm going to bed, I have to practice in the morning."

"Lydia"-

"It's fine Mom." She gives her mother a tight smile. "I'm just really tired."

Her mother sighs and leans over to kiss her cheek. "Okay. Goodnight honey."

"Night." Lydia slinks out of the room and goes up the stairs, dragging her bags behind her.

She dumps her stuff on her bed, turns on her lamp and locks her bedroom door. She unpacks her laptop and plugs the charger in, flips the computer open and powers it up. She puts The Notebook on for background noise as she takes off her clothes and changes into a purple Alo yoga bra and matching [leggings](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529094129318). Lydia gets her yoga mat from the corner and unfurls it over the floor in front of her bed. She takes her Toesox out of her bag and pulls them on because they give her a bit of grip and she doesn't want to worry about slipping off the mat and smashing her face into the hardwood.

She starts with core first, face burning when she remembers Aiden's earlier criticism. She has a whole routine, does a series of exercises in forty-five second intervals. She sets her timer and lies down on her back, knees bent, feet flat on the floor. She starts with basic crunches, slowly rolling her upper back off the floor, keeping her elbows wide, eyes up towards the ceiling. When the timer beeps she lifts her toes off the floor and does a set with her legs bent at a forty-five degree angle from the floor, then lifts her legs straight up, toes pointing at the ceiling, to hit her upper abdominals. 

Lydia sits up and leans back with a straight spine, so her back is off the floor, knees bent in front of her, and does an interval of Russian twists, slowly twisting from side to side to work her obliques. Next is a plank, she doesn't time herself, just holds it until her whole body is shaking and then holds it for a few more seconds before coming down on her knees. She pushes back into child's pose, stretching her back, before sliding down on her stomach to do back bows.

She stretches after that, does a series of downward dogs and lunges, lies back down for a glute stretch, pulling her bent legs towards her chest. By the time she's done she's sprawled out on her back, every muscle worked to the limit, her eyelids heavy like she could fall asleep right here on the floor.

Lydia rolls up to sit, peels off her Toesox and her bra, stands up and kicks off her leggings. She opens her dresser, she keeps clothes here to wear on the weekends. She puts on a pair of black boyshorts and an oversized tee [shirt](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533785964789), tiptoes down the hallway to wash her face and brush her teeth. When she's done she pulls her shirt up to her chin, tightens her core and stares at her torso in the mirror, the lines of her ribs and her abdominal muscles, evaluating her reflection before walking back to her bedroom.

She transfers her bags to the floor and flips down the covers, turns off her lamp and gets into bed. Her phone is on her nightstand, in the dark the screen is glowing. She reaches out and snags her phone, unlocks it to see a new unread text.

It's from Stiles. Lydia isn't prepared for the way her heartbeat picks up when she sees his name on the screen, imagining those long fingers of his tapping out a message to her and hitting _send_.

The text reads _I take it back. They're totally trying to set us up_.

Lydia snorts in surprise, smiling against her pillow. She stretches out on her side, composing a message and hitting _send_.

_Let them. It makes them happy._

His reply is almost instantaneous. _True. That. And sorry, I guess._

She pulls her bottom lip in between her lips as she types. _Why are you sorry? Did you ask them to set us up?_

She watches little grey bubbles appear, anxiously waiting until he responds. _No, it was all Scott and Allison's idea. But clearly you're not looking for a relationship right now and I didn't know they were going to be so....._

 _Pushy?_ she types back.

_Ha, you said it, not me._

_Nothing to be sorry for_ , she types. _Not your fault they're meddlers._

She starts to forget that she's supposed to be avoiding exactly this - talking to him, joking around, acting like some single girl who has nothing better to do than obliquely flirt over text with a boy she's only known for twenty-four hours.

She can't help it. It feels good, like having a secret, huddling under the covers with her phone, imagining his face lit up by his screen as he texts her back.

_I think they just want us both to be happy._

Lydia blinks at his words, her eyes unexpectedly stinging. It's something she doesn't think about - she's a ballet dancer, her life revolves around class and pointe shoes, pain and long rehearsals.

Happiness is a distant concept, something that looms hazily over her future, always reserved for later.

She'll be happy in two weeks when she gets a good role in the showcase. She'll be happy at the end of the school year when she gets accepted into the company.

She'll be happy when she's finally a principle dancer.

She turns her phone on silent and places it back on her nightstand with shaking fingers, without even doing the decent thing and saying goodnight to Stiles first. Lydia burrows deeper under the covers and presses her face into her pillow, pretending she doesn't feel the tears that spill over her cheeks when she shuts her eyes.


	3. practice makes perfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's everyone doing with the ballet scenes? Too much detail? Not enough? Just right? I'm trying to write them as clearly as possible so that even if you've never taken a dance class in your life you can still visualize what's happening.

On the weekends, when Lydia is staying at her mother's house, she sleeps until eight in the morning, a minor luxury she allows herself now that she's done with academic classes and doesn't have to split her time between homework and practice.

She jolts awake when her alarm begins to ring, reluctantly crawling out from under the covers to shut it off. She stares down at her phone, feeling a strange unexpected wave of disappointment that takes a minute to identify - she was hoping there would be a new text from Stiles.

She's suddenly overwhelmed by frustration. She's not supposed to feel like this about him, she's not supposed to care. She presses her palm against her forehead, feeling weak and pathetic, before forcing herself to put her phone down and get out of bed.

She changes into a pair of black mesh Adidas workout tights, a bralette and a pale blue muscle [tank](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529110790670), and brushes her hair before securing it in a tight low ponytail. She goes downstairs and finds the house empty, her mother drives up to the HBC office in San Francisco on the weekends to help out sometimes. Lydia relishes it, the silence, the space. She never gets alone time when she's in school aside from a spare hour here and there.

She gets a pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen and scrambles four egg whites with spinach, red pepper, olives, and exactly one eighth of an avocado over the stove. When the eggs are done she scrapes them onto a plate, pours herself a mug of coffee and stirs in the almond milk that her mother buys just for her. She carries her mug and plate into the living room, sets the coffee down on a coaster and sits on the couch with the plate of eggs in her lap.

Lydia turns the tv on and scrolls through the guide. She finds a marathon of Drunk History on Comedy Central, which is a perfect mix of interesting and light. She sets the eggs to the side to have a sip of coffee, waiting until she really starts feeling hungry to switch to eating.

She sticks her forks into the scramble she cooked, picking up a chunk of egg white with a green avocado smear. She counts to ten as she chews, remembering the words of the nutritionist her mother had dragged her to over the summer. 

_Protein is essential, Lydia._

As if Lydia doesn't understand the necessary role protein plays in promoting muscle adaption during recovery after exercise, and as a ballet dancer she gets a _lot_ of exercise.

She watches two episodes in a row, picking at her eggs until they aren't warm anymore. Lydia takes her plate to the sink and scrapes the remains of her breakfast down the disposal and pours another cup of coffee, drinks it standing up against the kitchen counter while skimming through her mom's latest issue of Vanity Fair. When she's fully caffeinated she fills up a bottle of water and carries it upstairs, grabs her dance bag and her phone from her room and takes everything down the hall to the guest bedroom.

After her mother bought the house she turned the extra room into a small practice studio. There's a barre along one wall opposite a large floor length mirror and a sprung floor like the studios at school, made to absorb shock so she doesn't hurt her feet or get shin splints. She plugs her phone into the speaker dock and turns on her Tchaikovsky playlist, pulls on her slippers and walks over to the barre.

She has Marin's barre sequence memorized so Lydia starts with pliés, taking it nice and slow, feeling into her body, testing herself. Her ribs feel fine today, no pain, so she stretches towards the bar, leaning over her left shoulder to stretch her right side. There it is, that pull, that starts in the costal cartilage of her sixth and seventh ribs, radiating down her oblique and into the top of her right hip.

It's not as bad as yesterday, she's able to breathe through it before coming up and bending sideways in the other direction to stretch out her left side. She continues on, taking her time, relaxed now that it's just her, no one to compare herself to, no one watching and waiting for her to make a mistake. When she's finished at the barre she changes into her pointe shoes to work in the center.

Lydia stares at herself in the mirror, the line of her torso, her hips, her legs. She watches herself bourrée back and forth, skimming across the floor, legs lean and straight. She starts working on her pirouettes, singles first, then doubles. She focuses on the snap of the turn, pushing down through her leg to pull up. Now that she's so focused on it she can feel what Aiden was talking about yesterday. Her muscles on the right side aren't contracting the way they should, they're a little weak, just enough to affect the whole of her core. Lydia sighs and does a lap around the room, pushing her fingertips into her right oblique to work at the muscle.

She rolls her neck in frustration and moves on, resolving to work more on strengthening her abdominals and book an appointment with Deaton for a session next week. She does some small jumps in the center, changements, alternating between fifth and second position, before going through the jumps they covered in technique this week - jetés, glissades, piques. She works on the variation Marin taught the other day, the one she had a problem with. Lydia goes over the transition from the grand jeté to the pirouette over and over again until she's satisfied.

By the time she's finished practicing it's noon. Lydia takes a shower and washes her hair, scrunches in a little mousse at the roots and lets it air dry into loose waves. She changes into another Alo set, a charcoal grey bralette and matching leggings, pulling on a white crop top over the bra. She doesn't bother with much makeup, applies tinted moisturizer and lip balm and goes back downstairs, her laptop under her arm.

She slices up an apple, scoops two tablespoons of peanut butter onto a plate with it and carries the food over to the kitchen table. She's taking an online class through Beacon Hills Community College - Mythology and the Mind, a humanities course that will easily transfer as a gen ed credit if, for some unforeseeable reason, she decides to go to college next year instead of dance. Her reading is all online, she dips an apple slice into the peanut butter as she learns about poor Cassandra, who possessed the gift of prophecy but was cursed so that no one would believe her.

By the time her mother comes back from HBC it's almost six. She comes into the kitchen and drops her tote bag on the floor next to the counter, where Lydia has intentionally left her plate out, generously smeared with peanut butter.

"Hi sweetheart," she says, bending down to kiss Lydia's cheek before unbuttoning her trench coat and slinging it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. "I ordered dinner from the cafe on the way home, it should be ready soon."

"Can I pick it up?" Lydia almost never gets to drive when she's at school, she jumps to take every opportunity she can get.

Her mother gets up and flashes her a tired smile, walking to the fridge to pull out a bottle of wine. "Absolutely."

Lydia runs upstairs to her room and puts on her Nikes, sticks her wallet and phone in her cross-body bag. She digs a quilted black bomber [jacket](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529113277564) out of her closet and pulls it on; it's going to be chilly outside now that it's almost sundown.

Her mother is waiting at the bottom of the stairs, car keys in one hand and a full glass of wine in the other. "Be careful," she says sternly, handing over the set of keys.

"I'm always careful," Lydia says reassuringly, and twirls right out the front door.

The car is parked at the end of the driveway; Lydia skips down the front steps and cuts across the grass, her hair whipping around her face in the wind. She unlocks the car and gets inside, adjusting the seat to be closer to the pedals. She starts the engine and turns on the headlights, her fingers flexing over the steering wheel. She loves to drive, loves the freedom of it, the control she feels, all that power right at her fingertips. She checks her mirrors before backing out of the driveway and turning down her street.

Beacon Hills Cafe is located in downtown Beacon Hills, not far from where she had dinner with Allison, Scott, and Stiles the other night. It's a Saturday evening, she has to drive almost two blocks past the cafe to find a parking space. Lydia gets out the car and locks it before slipping the keys in her bag and zipping up her bomber jacket. She walks quickly down the street, bending her head down against the wind. 

She's shivering by the time she reaches the cafe, pulling hard on the glass door to walk inside. To her relief it's warm in the cafe, she unzips her jacket and gets in line behind a few teenage girls standing behind a guy with dark hair wearing a red hoody. Lydia does elevés while she waits, rising straight up on the balls of her feet in her Nikes. The guy pays and walks to the side, Lydia shuffles forward behind the group of girls and blinks in surprise when he turns and she catches his face.

"Lydia!" Stiles gives her a delighted smile, like he couldn't be happier to run into her here, when she's wearing athletic clothes, hair hanging loose around her face. She doesn't even have mascara on. 

She smiles politely, hating that her stomach flips nervously, hands going up to her hair to tuck a loose strand behind her ear. "Hi Stiles."

"What are you doing here?" he asks, his car keys dangling from one hand.

"Picking up dinner for me and my mom," she says.

He nods knowingly. "Single parent club?"

"What?"

He holds up the white paper bag he just paid for. "I'm picking up dinner for my dad. He's working a night shift, left to his own devices he'd eat something with enough grease and fat to give himself a heart attack."

She remembers vaguely what he'd said about his family - he lives with his dad, no siblings, no mention of a mom. She wonders if his parents got divorced too but then again, he didn't say anything when she mentioned that her parents had separated.

The girls in front of her finish ordering and get out of line. Lydia steps up to the counter, aware of Stiles hovering in her periphery. "Order for Martin?"

She pays with her credit card and takes the white paper bag from the cashier. She's struck by the sudden impulse to peek and see what her mother ordered for her but she doesn't want to do it front of Stiles so she clutches the bag in her hands and turns to walk out with him.

"Are you staying with your mom tonight?" he inquires, pulling the heavy glass door open and gesturing for her to go before following her outside into the twilight of downtown Beacon Hills. "I thought you lived in the dorms."

"Yeah, I do, but I stay with her on the weekends," Lydia explains, shifting her weight back and forth on the sidewalk.

"Oh, I didn't know that." 

She gives him a flirtatious smile before she can stop herself. "I wasn't aware it was relevant information."

His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip and Lydia gets lightheaded at the sight of it, baffled as to why she seems to interpret his every movement as vaguely sexual when he's not even touching her.

"I think it's relevant," he says, his voice kind of low and amused because she flirted with him and he's _flirting back._

She shivers against the cold night air, suddenly realizing that they're standing right in front of his car, with Stiles making absolutely no move to leave. What is she doing, standing in the cold talking to a boy? This isn't the plan, this isn't what she's supposed to be doing.

Although there are extenuating circumstances that she may have not considered before, given that this is a rather cute boy she seems to naturally have chemistry with, which is the kind of thing that's difficult to dismiss outright.

And then Lydia feels that earlier wave of disgust with herself again. So they have chemistry. So what? She has chemistry with Aiden and she's certainly able to be around him without feeling like she's helpless to the sensations her body is experiencing - heart beating too fast, cheeks flushed, a little lightheaded. She wants to lean into Stiles like she did the other night, seek out the warmth she remembers, and then she shudders a little, stepping back, because she doesn't do this, this isn't her, a silly girl with a crush.

Lydia doesn't _do_ crushes. She's a go-getter, a taker, a seductress. She figures out what she wants and then she does what she has to do to get it.

"Lydia?" Stiles is suddenly towering over her, stepping into her space. "Are you okay?"

She blinks, unsure of when he got so close to her. "I'm fine," she says, hating how frail her voice sounds. "I should go before the food gets cold, I'm parked two blocks away."

"Oh sure, okay, hold on a second."

She watches helplessly as he unlocks his car and tosses his takeout bag on the passenger seat before slamming the door closed and re-locking the Jeep, pocketing his keys. "Come on, I'll walk you to your car."

"You don't have to," she says feebly.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Yeah, because making sure you get to your car safely is such a hardship."

His sarcasm, strangely, is the thing that makes her feel better, familiar ground for her to stand on. "Well, if you don't mind," she says dryly.

Stiles raises an eyebrow and holds his hand out to her, like he's daring her to take it. Lydia swallows and slips her hand into his, feeling a sharp tug somewhere deep in her chest at the feel of his palm, warm and solid against hers. She walks down the street in a daze, unable to focus on more than the feeling of him next to her, casually holding her hand like it's nothing. It's over too quickly, she points out her mother's car to him with a tilt of her head, fumbling with her bag to pull out the keys.

"This is me," she says, taking her hand back and leaning against the door of her mom's car.

Stiles smiles, jamming his hands in his sweatshirt pocket. "So, I guess I'll see you around?"

"Knowing Scott and Allison it'll be sooner rather than later," she jokes lightly. "Are they really trying to set us up?"

He shrugs. "You know how they are. They're hopelessly in love, their best friends both happen to be single at the same time, they probably think it's like, fate or something."

Lydia flicks her hair over her shoulder. "Allison thinks we'd be cute together."

She watches his eyes drop down to her bare stomach and she leans back against the car, pulling her abs in for the full effect. "Have I mentioned how much I like Allison?" Stiles says, looking a little glazed over.

"Allison's very likable. So's Scott," Lydia adds generously.

Stiles tilts his head. "So if our best friends are the likable ones what does that make us?"

She smirks. "The complicated smart-ass ones."

He steps a little closer, the toes of his Vans almost brushing against her Nikes. "I could do complicated," he says softly.

Lydia freezes, if she looks up she'll be looking right into his eyes. She keeps her gaze level with his chest, staring at the zipper of his sweatshirt. "Stiles..."

"Right," he says abruptly, and steps back. "Sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"It's okay," she says quickly because it makes her feel bad, the way his face shuts down, all the light going out of his eyes. "I should really go though, my mom is waiting."

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, me too, I mean, I better get to the station before my dad tries to sneak in a burger."

"Is your dad a cop?"

"Oh, no." Stiles laughs dryly. "He's the sheriff so it's like, ten times worse."

"That's a big deal though," she acknowledges. "Isn't it?"

Stiles shifts around, looking uncomfortable. "It's an elected position so yeah, there's kind of like... a lot of attention on him I guess. Every cop in Beacon County knows me."

"That might be why you're always getting into trouble," she points out. "Lack of anonymity."

"Yeah, probably. So I guess I'll just, uh, catch you later?"

"It was nice to see you," she says politely, because she managed to reject him (again) and make him feel obviously uncomfortable in under a minute, the least she can do is use her manners.

Something in his face softens. "Yeah, it was cool to see you too. Get home safe."

"You too." She waves goodbye and unlocks the car, slides into the driver's seat and places the bag of food on the passenger seat. She leans back against the headrest and watches Stiles walk away from her in the review mirror.

Lydia inhales slowly through her nose and shuts her eyes, just for a second, before starting the car and pulling out onto the street. When she gets home she parks in the driveway and lets herself into the house through the front door. Lydia hangs up her jacket, kicks off her Nikes in the foyer and takes the food into the kitchen. Her mother is waiting for her at the table working on a second glass of wine, plates already out.

Lydia unpacks the bag, staring down at the entrees. The grilled salmon with roasted potatoes and asparagus is her mother's regular order, Lydia passes it across the table to her mom, grabs the second entree and pries off the plastic lid. It's a power bowl - quinoa, grilled chicken, kale, shredded carrots, avocado, chia seeds, and cubes of mango.

She grabs a fork and sits down, making sure she has a full glass of water. She mixes everything up with her fork before taking a bite, counts to ten in her head, swallows, and takes a sip of water. Lydia eats slowly, reading an article on her tablet about stretching techniques that Allison emailed her. She stops when she's halfway through the bowl, stomach full, and snaps the lid back on before carrying the container to the fridge.

Her mother looks up from her magazine, pushing her reading glasses up into her hair. "You didn't finish?"

"It's really big," she says defensively. "I'll eat the rest for lunch tomorrow.

Her mom purses her lips. "Alright."

Lydia stands by the kitchen island, feeling uncomfortably self-conscious. "I'm going to take a bath, okay?"

Her mother slides her glasses back down to her nose and returns to her magazine. "Okay sweetheart. There are new Epsom salts in the closet."

"Thanks." Lydia grabs her phone and goes upstairs to her room, takes her clothes off and changes into a bathrobe.

In the hall closet she finds four one-pound bags of lavender scented Epsom salts. She bends down to pick one up and carries it into the bathroom. Lydia runs water into the tub and once it gets hot she opens the bag and dumps the whole thing into the bath. All the dancers take Epsom salt baths, the magnesium and sulfate in the salt absorb through the skin, reducing inflammation, helping muscle and nerve functions, and flushing out toxins.

Lydia ties her hair up in a messy bun and steps into the water, slowly lowering herself down into the bath. She sighs and leans back, resting her head on the lip of the tub. She feels weightless like this, all her muscles loosening in the hot water. Lydia slides her hand down between her legs, remembering how it felt to have Stiles' hand closed around her own, the flick of his tongue against his bottom lip, warmth pooling low in her stomach, and shuts her eyes.

*

Sunday goes the same as the day before - she gets up at eight, picks at her breakfast, drinks two cups of coffee, practices, showers, has leftovers for lunch, does more research for her mythology class, and eats dinner with her mother. Lydia stretches for an hour up in her room, does twenty minutes of core, and packs her bags before going to bed.

In the morning she gets up at 6:30, pulls on leggings and her grey [sweater](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529113460770), and goes downstairs. It's still dark out, Lydia puts on her Nikes in the foyer and ties her coat tightly around herself. Her mother meets her at the car; Lydia throws her bags in the back and gets into the passenger seat, slumping against the headrest. They drive to the cafe to pick up coffee before they go to school, their little Monday morning ritual. Her mom pulls over to park and puts on her hazards, opens her purse to take out a ten and passes it over.

Lydia jumps out of the car, the money clutched in her hand, and runs down the sidewalk to the cafe, freezing in the early morning cold. They aren't serving food yet but their coffee bar opens at 6am. Lydia orders a cappuccino for her mother and a triple nonfat latte for herself, watching the barista like a hawk as he makes the latte to make sure he doesn't fuck up her milk.

Once the drinks are made she carries the cardboard cups out to the car, carefully handing over her mother's cappuccino as she slides into the passenger seat. Lydia turns on the radio and tunes it to NPR, she listens with her eyes closed as she sips her latte. It takes them twenty minutes to get to school, set back from the business district of Beacon Hills at the edge of the preserve, not that far from where the Hale house used to stand. After Laura died Peter and Derek had the remains of the house torn down and built a garden in her memory.

Her mother parks in the employee lot behind the school. Lydia steps out of the car, clutching her latte, and gets her bags out of the backseat. Her mom shoulders her tote bag and they walks across the parking lot to the back entrance of the school; she unlocks the door with her work ID and they step inside, walking past the stairwell of the school's back set of stairs and down the main hallway of the first floor. They split ways at the elevator, Lydia's mother heads further down the hallway to the office and Lydia takes the elevator up to the forth floor.

Lydia unlocks the door to her dorm room and opens it quietly. She tiptoes inside; Allison is sprawled facedown on her bed asleep in the dark, long legs tangled up in her mint green comforter. Lydia grabs a leotard from the low dresser pushed against the end of her bed and goes into the bathroom to change into it. She brushes her hair up into a high ponytail, braids it quickly and twists it around the base to create a braided bun, securing it with a few pins and a light mist of hairspray.

She applies a light layer of tinted moisturizer with her fingers, pats a bit of concealer under her eyes, brushes tinted gel through her eyebrows, and curls her eyelashes to look more awake then she feels. When she's finished Lydia turns off the light and walks out of the bathroom, layers a pair of yoga pants over her pale pink tights and tugs an Athleta long sleeve [thermal](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529113561954) over her leotard, sticks her feet into her Chloe flats, grabs her dance bag and her latte, and manages to get out of the room without waking up Allison.

She takes the elevator down to the basement, where the practice studios and gym are. Lydia swallows the last vestiges of her latte, tosses her empty cup in the trash can outside the gym and pulls on the door to walk inside. It's almost empty, the only students here are Ethan and Danny, doing an ab workout together on the mats. Lydia wiggles her fingers at them in greeting and walks over to one of the treadmills. She places her bag on the floor and takes out her phone, plugs her headphones into them, and gets on the machine. She opens up YouTube as she starts walking and starts an Introduction to Higher Mathematics Lecture. 

She listens to it as she walks, slowly warming up her body along with her mind. It's how she gets into the right headspace for class, settles herself so she's calm and ready to focus. She walks on the treadmill until 8:45, when it's time to leave for technique. She leaves with Ethan and Danny, they all take the elevator up to the third floor. She says goodbye to them in front of Studio D, where they have mens' technique with Finstock. 

Lydia lets herself into Studio B and immediately freezes, the studio is dead quiet even though everyone is here - Allison is sitting on the floor next to Kira, looking uncharacteristically nervous, Erica's at the barre silently doing relevés and Cora and Malia are standing in the center with _Derek Hale_ and a pretty brunette Lydia doesn't recognize.

She hurries across the floor and sits down next to Kira and Allison. "What the hell is going on?" Lydia hisses. "What is _he_ doing here?"

"I think he's teaching class," Kira says timidly, pointing and flexing her toes.

Lydia looks back over to where Derek's standing with his sister, cousin and the mystery girl. He's dressed casually in an olive green short sleeved henley and tight jeans, standing barefoot with his hands in his back pockets, laughing quietly at something Cora is saying.

Lydia looks over at Allison, who's compulsively playing with the cap of her water bottle. "Are you going to be okay?"

Over a decade ago, back when Derek was a level six, he got caught having a torrid affair with Allison's aunt Kate, who was a soloist with the Hale Ballet Company at the time. Their relationship got outed right after the fire, Lydia has no idea how they got caught but it didn't end well for Kate. She was dismissed by the company with an unspoken threat of a criminal report being filed if she didn't leave the state immediately, which she did, giving that Derek was sixteen and Kate was in her twenties, a hot soloist on track to becoming a principle dancer until she seduced the Hale family's only son and shot her own career in the foot.

"It's fine," Allison says quietly. "We barely know each other."

"Do you think the rumors are true?" Kira whispers.

"What rumors?" Lydia asks.

Kira picks nervously at her bottom lip. "I heard Malia say Derek's going to take over the company when the season's over."

Lydia stares at her in surprise, if Derek's running the company that means he's essentially running the school. Originally Mr. and Mrs. Hale co-directed the company and Peter had the position of director of the school. After they died he took over as the creative director for the company and promoted Marin to school director, she kept her position when Peter resigned and Deucalion took over. Marin is backed by a full teaching staff, Lydia's mother in the office, Nurse McCall, Deaton, academic tutors - the school practically runs itself as far as Lydia can tell.

But.

If Derek becomes the artistic director of HBC he's involved in casting for the student showcase, he's the one she has to impress if she wants to make it into the company. If Marin is a goddess then Derek is a god, just as crucial in determining Lydia's future. In the hierarchy of Lydia's world, Derek would rule supreme.

Allison looks shocked. "But he's a _principle dancer_. He'd have to quit the company."

"It's a big promotion, really," Lydia points out.

He'd be in charge, he'd be responsible for them, the dancers, the company. His family's legacy held between his fingers, waiting to be molded.

Allison rolls her eyes. "You know what I mean."

"Maybe he doesn't want to dance anymore," Kira says softly.

The three of them stare at each other in horror; the idea is simply unimaginable.

In the center of the studio Derek clears his throat loudly and claps his hands together. "Okay ladies. For those of you who don't know me, I'm Derek Hale, I'm taking over for Marin this morning. This is my friend Paige, she's helping me out with music."

The mystery girl, Paige, smiles and walks over behind the piano, but instead of sitting down at the bench she retrieves a cello case and carries it over to a folding chair in the front of the studio. Derek waits quietly for her to get set up before walking towards the barre, gesturing for the dancers to follow him.

Lydia quickly lines up behind Allison at the barre, Kira sliding in behind her. The room is tense with anticipation, everyone, even Cora, looks exceptionally serious in the mirror.

"Pliés," Derek announces. "Demi, demi, grand, cambre front and back, sous-su, hold for an eight count, soutenu to repeat on the other side. In first, second, forth and fifth."

Paige starts to play, something slow and strange in a minor key. Lydia sinks into her first plié, checking in with her body - turned out from the hips, arches up, knees over the line of her toes, neutral pelvis, stomach pulled in, head slightly tilted to follow the movement of her free arm as she bends and straightens her legs along with the music.

Derek walks up and down next to them as they move through the pliés, closely observing without saying a word. He stands in front of Lydia during the cambres and she bites the inside of her cheek, breathing slowly through her nose as she arches backwards. He doesn't stop her to give a correction though, just watches her with his chin resting against his palm and moves on to Kira.

Lydia goes up on demi-pointé for the sous-sus, squeezing her legs in fifth position, stretching her arms up and curving them over her head, palms facing down, thumbs tucked in, the rest of her fingers carefully positioned. They used popsicle sticks when they were level ones, threaded under the index finger, over the middle and ring fingers, and back under the pinkie, until the correct placement was committed to muscle memory.

They continue on to tendus, degagges, frappés, quick strikes of their feet against the floor. Lydia starts to relax into the monotony of it, movements she's done hundreds and hundreds of times. The presence of Derek is nerve wracking but he's not really doing anything other than observing, almost like he's lulling them all into a false sense of security. He's too important, it's too close to evaluations for this to all be a coincidence. Company members come back to the school to visit occasionally but they don't teach regular technique class, especially principal dancers, _especially_ someone as important as Derek.

When they get off the barre everyone moves to the center, Derek walking down the floor towards the front of the studio. He leans back towards Paige and mutters something and she nods, giving him a little wink and tucking back her hair.

"Okay." Derek's voice is loud and clear, authoritative. "Grand battements a la second, coming forward from the back."

They all line up at the back of the studio, Derek standing a little in front of Paige over by the mirrors, facing them. Paige begins playing, Derek cues them in with a wave of his hand. They start grand battements, a high leg extension. Lydia extends her right leg to the side, lifting from her hip, as high as she can go, toes pointed, before lowering it and repeating the motion with her left leg. They all take a small step forward in perfect synchronicity and start with the right leg again, slowly moving towards the front of the room.

Derek drifts towards Erica, standing a few feet in front of her. Lydia watches him out of the corner of her eye as he crosses his arms over his chest, tilting his head as he observes her. He lifts one hand up and Paige immediately stops playing; they all drop their working legs to the floor and watch as Derek approaches Erica.

"You're cheating," he says calmly.

Erica blinks wide innocent eyes at him. "I am?"

Next to her Cora snorts quietly. Derek's lips twitch up like he's amused. "Show me," he instructs.

Lydia watches as Erica does a grand battement to the side - Derek's right, she is cheating. Instead of keeping her torso straight and using the muscles from her hip to initiate lifting her leg she's jerking a little to the side, throwing her leg up into the air to get more momentum.

Derek leans forward and plants his hands around her waist, holding her body still. "Again."

Erica does another battement, perfectly in control this time, her torso held straight in Derek's hands. "Oh," Erica sighs, fluttering her eyelashes and grinning up at Derek. "I see what you mean now."

"Mhmm." Derek shakes his head, lips pressed together like he's trying not to laugh, and steps back away from her until he's near the mirrors again. "Alright, keep going."

Paige starts playing and they all fall back into the pattern of grand battements, lifting one leg up at a time, drifting down the studio towards the mirrors. Lydia stares at her reflection, making sure she's standing straight and not sinking into the hip of her standing leg, breathing slowly and steadily. Derek walks slowly, observing them, moving past Malia and Kira, and stops in front of Lydia.

She holds her head high, continues with her grand battements, until Derek holds up a hand and the room falls silent. Instead of coming up to her like he did to Erica, Derek holds his hand out and gestures for Lydia to come to him. She walks quickly to the front of the room, the back of her neck burning, aware that all the girls are staring at her.

"What's your name?" Derek asks.

Lydia swallows and lifts her chin. "Lydia Martin."

"Face the mirror please."

She moves quickly around him and faces the mirror, feeling like her heart might beat right through her leotard. She watches in the mirror as Derek turns around to stand behind her, catching her eyes in the reflection.

"Battement," he commands.

She raises her arms up, stretching them out away from her sides, slightly curved, pulls in her abs and lifts her right leg to the side, turned out from her hip, knee pointed up towards the ceiling. She points her toes as hard as she can, extending her leg until it's well above ninety degrees.

"You can go higher than that." Derek wraps his left arm around her waist and reaches up with his right hand to grip her right ankle. "See?"

He pushes her right leg up higher until her ankle is almost level with her ear and Lydia gasps, thrown off balance, reaching down to grasp his forearm. 

"Don't drop me," she blurts out, staring at herself in the mirror, her extended right leg so high its almost touching her head and Derek's large hand pressed against her stomach, anchoring her body to his.

"Trust me," he chides lightly, like he can sense her fear. "You can do it."

She exhales shakily and unlocks her hands from their grip on his arm, trusting that he's right. She forces herself to pull in her core for dear life, pushing down through her standing leg as her working right leg shakes in his hand.

"See, you're flexible enough." He pushes her right leg up a little more, pulsing it slightly as the muscles in her leg relax into it. Lydia can feel the stretch deep in her hip, intense but not painful. "But you need to be strong too."

He pats his hand over her stomach and she stiffens, desperately trying to hold onto her balance. Derek's watching her in the mirror, his large hands manipulating her into the position to his liking, feeling every little tremble, all her weaknesses on display.

"Got it?" he asks.

She nods slightly, sweating rolling down her back, her right leg shaking. Derek slowly releases her leg and then the arm around her waist, so she's balanced solely on her left leg with only her own strength to hold her right leg up. Lydia squeezes every muscle in her body to keep her leg up, ignoring the burn in her side, her hamstring, her hip. She stares at herself in the mirror, one of her legs extended up almost to her head, arms outstretched, all of her muscles trembling with the effort. It's exhilarating, the little moments when she pushes herself past what she thought was possible.

"That's enough," Derek says.

Lydia lowers her leg back down, feeling a little lightheaded. This isn't at all how she thought working with Derek would be like. He's always had a bit of a reputation, to say the least. Known for his flings, his reclusiveness, his terrible moods. But there's a reason he's a principle dancer with one of the best companies in the country - he's a Hale, an original, born and bred on ballet. She can only imagine the things she could learn from him, if he thought it was worth his time to work with her.

"Well done," Derek says lightly. "Back in line, please."

Lydia walks back to the rest of the girls, watching Allison mouth _ohmygod!_ at her, and all Lydia can really do is lift a bemused eyebrow in agreement.


	4. you can never have too many friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is wondering I upped the chapter count due to how long I think this is going to be (outlines are helpful but rarely do me justice, oh well). Stydia banter totally took over this chapter and I'm not even a little sorry about it ;)

[Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529113718151) walks out of the studio after variations class with Marin on Thursday afternoon when [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529113988003) stops her in the hallway, her cell phone in one hand and the other one clamping around Lydia's wrist.

Lydia raises an eyebrow in annoyance, she has an appointment with Deaton in exactly three minutes. "What?"

"Will you go to Scott's lacrosse game with me tomorrow night?" Allison is still staring down at her phone, texting with her thumb.

Lydia wrinkles her nose. "Why would I do that?"

"Because it's a home game and I promised Scott I would see him play sometime and I know you don't have plans tomorrow night because no offense, you never go out on Fridays and I don't want to sit there by myself with a bunch of kids who all go to public school!"

"Yeah, not that that doesn't sound _riveting_ but I think I'll pass."

"Lydia, _please_ ," Allison says beseechingly. "I will literally beg. Please, _please_ come to the game with me so I don't look like some friendless loser in front of Scott and all the guys he goes to school with. Please, please, _please_ Lydia."

"Don't beg, it's beneath you," Lydia chastises.

"Please." Allison sticks her bottom lip out and widens her eyes. She's clearly picked up on Scott's puppy dog face and it's just as irresistible when she does it. "Pretty, pretty please with a cherry on top?"

"Fine, but only because you sound totally pathetic and I'm honestly concerned. Now let go of me, I'm going to be late."

"Sorry, thanks you, _thank you_!" Allison squeals and throws her arms around her in a quick hug before releasing her. "See you at dinner."

Lydia waves goodbye as Allison runs towards the stairs before walking to the elevator. She gets stuck waiting for almost four minutes and darts in when it arrives, takes it down to the first floor with a few level four girls, who all stare at her with wide eyes - level eights have the equivalent cache of a high school senior. She gets off in the lobby and walks quickly down the main hallway, turns left when it dead ends at the back stairwell that leads up to their dorms to take the back hallway to the medical wing where Deaton and Nurse McCall's offices are located.

Deaton is waiting for her in the front room of the trainer's office, eyes on the clock hanging on the wall near the desk - it currently reads 3:36; her appointment was for 3:30.

"Lydia," he says, calm and professional as always. "You made it."

"I'm sorry I'm late, I got detained," she says contritely.

Deaton smiles kindly. "Quite alright. Come on back."

He turns and heads down the hallway to the exam room and Lydia follows, glancing sideways at the stock room but no Scott, he must not be working today. Lydia follows Deaton into the exam room and slips off her flats before swinging up onto the exam table. He gets her file out and opens it on the counter before turning to face her.

"Well?" he says. "What's going on?"

"My right side is weak," she announces. "Still."

"Well that's to be expected, you suffered a serious injury."

"It was almost a year ago," she argues. "It shouldn't still be a problem."

"We talked about this," he says calmly. "You know that you may never feel the way you did before it happened."

Lydia exhales loudly in frustration. "That's not good enough."

He raises an eyebrow and scribbles something in her chart. "Would you say that you're experiencing more stress than usual?"

"Casting for the showcase is next week, what do you think?"

He nods and sets down her file before standing in front of her. Lydia holds her right arm out to him and he takes her radial pulse, his head tilted thoughtfully.

"I think needles would be beneficial for today," Deaton says. "Take off your sweater please, and lie back."

Lydia nods and wordlessly pulls her grey cashmere sweater over her head, leaving her in her black leotard, pink tights and heavy knit leg warmers. She lies down on her back, shifting around on the table to get comfortable while Deaton snaps on rubber gloves and opens a drawer full of individually packages acupuncture needles, carefully selects a handful and lays them on a tray. 

Deaton picks up the first needle and inserts it over the rib she cracked last year by holding the needle with one hand and quickly tapping it with the other so the tip goes through her leotard and lodges right under her skin, the thin needle quivering in the air. Deaton inserts five others down her side, the last one in the crease of her hip. There's a sharp sting right when the needle goes in but then it doesn't feel like much other than an odd sensation of pressure.

"I'm going to put a heat lamp on you and let those sit for a little while," Deaton tells her. He wheels a small heat lamp over and flicks it on so it's aimed at her right side. "I'm going to turn the lights off now, try and rest, alright? And no moving."

"Alright," she murmurs, blinking languidly as the lights go out.

"I'll turn some music on for you," he says in a quiet voice. "I'll be back soon."

Music starts to chime, soft and low, and a few seconds later she hears the door click shut. Lydia exhales slowly, careful not to fidget. Acupuncture is comfortable as long as one stays absolutely still.

Deaton said to rest but she can't help that her mind wanders, first to the combination she worked on in variations this afternoon, then inevitably to evaluations for the showcase coming up next week. She wonders if Derek will be there, if there's any merit to the rumor Kira heard about him taking over. She remembers Derek's hands on her body in class, large and heavy, his body language exuding the calm assuredness of a principal dancer.

Lydia blinks heavily, fighting a sudden wave of exhaustion. Her daydream shifts and it's suddenly Stiles' hands on her body, Stiles holding her to his chest, Stiles whispering _I could do complicated_ , Stiles making her body ache and shiver as she drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

*

After partnering is over on Friday Lydia goes up to her room, takes a quick shower, and walks back over to her closet wrapped in her towel, staring blankly at her wardrobe.

What the hell does one wear to a lacrosse game? Lydia sighs, finally deciding that she'd rather be overdressed than under, and checks the weather on her phone.

Fifty-two degrees and windy.

She frowns before carefully selecting a pair of fleece lined tights and her cream knit sweater [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529114116586). After she changes Lydia braids her hair back tightly because wind blown hair is definitely not cute. She puts on makeup, does a nice little cat eye and slicks on some lipgloss before grabbing her bags and going down to the office. Lydia researches the history of lacrosse on her tablet so she can follow the game tonight, waiting patiently until her mom is finished with work.

At six-thirty they leave for the drive home and when they get to her house Lydia switches places with her mom in the driveway, walking around the front of the car. Her mom catches her by the wrist as Lydia gets into the driver's seat. "No drinking, no drugs, and no sex. Got it?"

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Got it, Mom."

"I'm serious honey, you're going to be with public school kids, they're not like your ballet friends."

"It's a lacrosse game Mom, it's not like I'm not going to shoot up and go to a club."

"You're not funny," her mother says, but her lips are turned up in a smile as she stands on the grass and watches Lydia back out of the driveway.

She goes all the way back through Beacon Hills, drives down the long empty street that leads to school, trees dense on either side of the road, HSB a huge brick building looming in the distance. When Lydia reaches it she turns around the long driveway and pulls up to the curb. A few seconds later Allison pushes through the front door, her hair down and wavy, wearing tight jeans, her motorcycle jacket, and a chunky knit grey [scarf](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529114185625).

"Hey." Allison opens the passenger door and climbs into the car. "Thanks for getting me."

"Sure." Lydia shifts back into drive and swings the car around the driveway to go back down the long road that leads back to the street, which will take them in the direction of the suburban district of Beacon Hills and the high school.

"I ate at school," Allison says conversationally, stretching out her legs. "You had dinner with your mom, right?"

"Yep." Lydia lies automatically, privately a little horrified that she managed to forget to eat dinner completely, and flicks on her turn signal to swing the car into traffic.

It's fine, she tells herself. It'll be fine, she can eat something after the game. Allison doesn't need to know, it would only scare her, and there's no reason to do that.

Everything is fine.

"Cool." Allison shoots her a nervous smile. "You look nice."

"I live to make you look good."

Allison laughs and Lydia relaxes, follows Allison's directions through town to Beacon Hills High School. Allison helps her figure out where to park and they jump out of the car. Lydia locks it and walks around to Allison, taking her hand when Allison holds it out.

"Come on," Allison says. "I think it's this way."

Allison leads them through the parking lot and over to the lacrosse field. It's dark outside but the field is brightly lit by floodlights. Allison pauses, staring at both sides of the bleachers before picking the one that's got a team dressed in white and burgundy sitting on the bottom bench. 

"That one," Allison says. They climb up into the third row and file along until they find enough space to sit down together. Allison grins and reaches over her lap to squeeze her hand. "Seriously, thanks for coming with me."

"You're welcome." Lydia reaches into her bag and unwraps a mint, pops it into her mouth and sucks compulsively.

Allison cups her hands around her mouth. "Scott!"

Player 11 turns around, Scott beams at Allison and waves before elbowing the boy next to him, player 24, who turns around too and it's Stiles, because of course it is. His eyes light up when he sees her, he says something excitedly to Scott that she can't hear and waves with both hands.

Lydia presses her lips together and waves back, feeling the stares of strangers all around her. Someone blows a whistle and the first quarter starts. From what Lydia could gather online, high school lacrosse is played in four twelve minute periods, with ten minutes for halftime. Scott and Stiles are still on the bench; Lydia watches in relative silence next to Allison, shivering in the wind and grateful she wore her coat, her hands curled into balls inside her pockets. Scott goes in at the start of the second period, the score still 0-0. He's not as bad as Lydia thought he might be, he's not the fastest but he still gets in a few good passes by halftime. 

"Come on, lets go say hi." Allison grabs Lydia's wrist and pulls her across the bleacher row and down to the bottom. Lydia follows reluctantly, suddenly feeling self-conscious and lightheaded, the bright lights making her eyes water. 

Allison bounds over to Scott and kisses him right on the lips, combing her hands through his sweat-soaked hair. Lydia stands where Allison left her, her cheeks heating at being so quickly abandoned.

"Hey Lydia!" Stiles jumps up from the bench to rescue her from having to stand alone in front of the entire lacrosse team. "What're you doing here?"

"Allison invited me, I'm really just the chauffeur." She steps forward awkwardly, unsure if they're supposed to hug now.

They're not really friends, they don't even really _know_ each other. The problem is that she feels like she does anyway. Maybe it's because he's Scott's best friend and Lydia's known Scott since they were ten, they're not really close or anything but he's still a consistent figure in her life. The two boys aren't really anything alike - Scott is level-headed and sweet, Stiles clearly his snarky, sarcastic counterpart. But Stiles feels familiar anyway, like she's known him forever.

"You look nice," he says.

It jolts her back into reality; she manages to give him a sarcastic smile, peeking up at him through her eyelashes. "I'm wearing a coat."

He grins. "You're totally wearing a dress under that, aren't you?"

"I've never been to a lacrosse game before," she says a little tartly. "I was out of my sartorial depth."

"Really?" Stiles squints and glances over where Scott and Allison are totally entwined in each other. "Let me guess, you owed Allison a favor."

"Not that it's any of your business but no, I'm not doing this because I owed her. I can be magnanimous."

Stiles raises an eyebrow, looking amused. "Oh yeah?"

Lydia shrugs. "She didn't want to come to Scott's first game by herself, I'm here for moral support."

Stiles suddenly looks confused. "First game?"

"What?"

All of a sudden he's laughing quietly, turning them away from Scott and Allison so they can't be overheard. "Is that what Allison told you?"

"What?" Lydia asks again, feeling uncomfortable at the implication that there's something going on with her best friend that she doesn't know about.

"Lydia, Allison's been to like, five of our games this season."

She stares at him. "What?"

He tilts his head. "Are you feeling okay?"

"What?"

"You literally just said _what_ four times in a row, are you aware of that?"

"Sorry." She blinks rapidly, Stiles a burgundy blur in front of her. "Sorry, I'm just a little tired."

"Are you okay?" He's so close suddenly, his hands outstretched and ready to steady her. "You look kind of pale."

"Yeah, no, I'm fine," she dismisses. "Sorry, what were you getting at? With Allison?"

"Oh, I uh..." Stiles rubs the back of his neck. "I don't think she really invited you here for her."

She sways a little, suddenly feeling obtuse. How could she not realize Allison was lying to her? "She brought me because you would be here," she realizes.

He winces. "Sorry?"

She shrugs. "It's alright. I don't get a lot of typical high school experiences, so..."

"Right." Stiles looks a little relieved that she's not mad about it. "So uh, Scott and I are getting food after the game, you're coming, right?"

Lydia rubs her forehead. "Allison and I didn't talk about it."

Stiles raises his chin in Scott and Allison's direction. Lydia looks over her shoulder and is not at all surprised to see them still kissing shamelessly. "I'm pretty sure Allison's coming," Stiles concludes.

Lydia presses the tips of her fingertips into her palms. "Then I guess I'll see you after the game."

He does a weird little abortive movement with his whole body, like he's excited but trying not to show it. "Yeah, cool, okay, I'll see you later! I mean, I'll see you now, the game's not over yet, but after, I will see you after the game."

"Okay Stiles." She does her best not to roll her eyes at him and goes back up the bleachers to her seat, Allison following her a minute later.

"So what were you and Stiles talking about?" Allison asks innocently, rubbing her hands together as the third quarter starts.

"You know, you're not as subtle as you think you are."

Allison blinks her big doe eyes at Lydia. "What are you talking about?"

"Allison."

Her best friend sighs loudly. "Fine, you got me, okay? I kind of maybe lied to you a tiny bit to get you to come, are you happy now?"

Lydia raises an eyebrow. "And you did that why?"

"Because otherwise you wouldn't have," Allison whines. "You're my best friend, excuse me for wanting to spend time with you outside of class, like going to my boyfriend's lacrosse game together or"-

"Double dating?"

Allison looks sheepish. "It's not a double date. It'll be like, a group thing."

"A group thing?"

"Yeah, some of the guys on the team always go to the diner after a game, it's not a big deal."

"And now we're going too?"

"It'll be fun! Come on Lydia, please?"

Lydia narrows her eyes. "Are you going to break curfew? Because if I were you I really wouldn't want to get written up a week before they cast the showcase."

Allison laughs. "What do you care, you won't get into trouble. Anyway, it's cool, don't worry about it, we don't have to stay long if you don't want to."

"Will you stop pushing me at Stiles if I go?"

Allison pouts. "I'm not _pushing_."

"Are too."

"I just think it wouldn't kill you to get to know the guy."

"Why?" Lydia asks, exasperated.

"Lydia."

"Allison."

"How long have you been single?"

"Exactly eleven months."

"Don't you want to at least... try to think about dating again?"

"Nope."

"Lydia."

"Allison, I'm serious."

Allison sighs and tips her head onto Lydia's shoulder. "They're not all like Jackson."

Lydia stiffens but she still reaches up and strokes Allison's hair. "I know."

Allison tilts her head up to look at her. "Do you?"

"Scott's not," Lydia says softly. "Right?"

Allison's eyes go sad in a way that cuts straight to the core. "Right."

"It's bad timing anyway," Lydia mutters.

"But - you like him, don't you?"

"I don't know him," she says sharply. 

"Do you want to?"

Lydia shifts around on the metal bench. "I haven't decided yet."

Allison sighs. "Okay."

"Why are you pushing this so hard?"

"I'm not trying to push!" Allison's gaze breaks away for a second, watching Scott run down the field and catch a pass only to get shoulder-checked a second later. "It's just - don't you want that with someone again? Aren't you lonely? Sexually frustrated? _Something?_ "

"I'm definitely some kind of frustrated," Lydia bites back.

"Okay, fine!" Allison holds her hands up in mock surrender. "I'll promise I'll stop trying to get you to remember that there's more to life than ballet."

"I just need to get through the showcase, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Allison says, but she doesn't sound convinced.

Stiles finally gets put in during the final quarter. The game doesn't get exciting until the last ten seconds, when Scott gets the ball and Stiles, who is somehow inexplicably open, catches his pass. Lydia finds herself jumping up with Allison and screaming along with the crowd, _shoot it, shoot it!_. Stiles hurls his stick and the ball sails right into the net.

A whistle blows and everyone cheers; Beacon Hills wins 1-0.

They follow the crowd off the bleachers, waving at Scott and Stiles, who are walking with the rest of the team towards their locker room. Lydia still feels a little lightheaded, there's a faint ringing in her ears and she doesn't feel totally connected to the ground. She inhales deeply, trying to keep her body upright, fighting the feeling of the earth tilting under her feet as she watches Stiles go inside.

"We're going to meet them in the parking lot," Allison explains. "You can follow Stiles to the diner. Seriously, if you aren't having a good time we'll go, okay?"

"Okay." Lydia follows Allison towards the car, squinting against the harsh lights still illuminating the field as they make the trek to the parking lot, flares of light shooting across her eyelids when she blinks.

Allison glances sideways at her. "You okay?"

Lydia's head starts to pound, she should've eaten a granola bar or something before she picked up Allison. "I'm fine."

Allison frowns and reaches for her hand. "You sure?"

Lydia blinks rapidly, forcing her eyes to focus. "Yeah."

"Okay." Allison leads her towards the parking lot, chattering about the game, the boys on the team, her words stringing together in a blur of nonsense.

Lydia stumbles along next to her, pushing through the lightheadedness. Everything turns into a grey blur of shadows and light and she has to stop at the edge of the parking lot clutching onto Allison's hand, trying to find her center of gravity again.

"Hey." Allison looks worried. "Seriously, are you okay?"

She needs a distraction, immediately. Lydia opens up her bag and takes out her car keys. "Yeah, do you want to drive?"

Allison stares at the key ring dangling from Lydia's fingers, her face lighting up. "Really?"

Allison has a license but no car, Mr. Argent refused to get her one because she lives on campus. It's the perfect distraction; Allison snatches the keys out of her hand, looking delighted. From across the parking lot Lydia sees Scott and Stiles coming out of a back entrance of the school wearing jeans and sweatshirts, lacrosse sticks strapped to their backpacks.

"Hey, why don't you go unlock the car?" Lydia says. "I'll back in a minute."

Allison shoots her a bemused glance but shrugs. "Okay."

Lydia crosses the parking lot slowly, the click of her boots against the blacktop unnervingly loud in her ears. Scott and Stiles are standing by his Jeep, loading their lacrosse gear into the trunk. She curls her fingers against her palms, knees feeling weak, keeping her eyes focused on the car. 

She just has to make it to the car.

"Hey Lydia!" Scott calls out, looking curiously behind her where Allison is waiting by her mother's car across the parking lot. "Everything cool, we still on for the diner?"

"Allison's taking my car," Lydia explains.

"Uh... okay?" 

"Do you need me to write you an engraved invitation?" she asks pointedly.

"Oh!" Scott's eyes go wide and then he grins. "Cool, thanks Lydia."

"Sure." She gives him a sweet smile before leaning in and gripping the fabric of his grey hooded sweatshirt. "If anything happens to my mother's car - or Allison - I'll skin you alive."

Scott gulps audibly. "Got it."

She releases him and pats his shoulder. "Go on then."

Scott shoots Stiles a look she can't interpret and then he's off, loping across the parking lot to catch up with Allison. Stiles leans against the car, watching Scott walk away. "That was nice of you."

She smirks. "Told you I can be magnanimous."

Stiles nods, looking amused. "You did."

Lydia bounces lightly in her boots, keeping her knees soft so they don't buckle. "Great game by the way," she congratulates him.

He smiles, looking a little bashful. "I didn't really play that much."

"Stiles, you scored the wining goal."

"Yeah. That was pretty cool." He grins at her and it's like honey, the way her body wants to melt for his smile, thick and sweet. "But it's not like I did a tour jeté or anything."

"A tour jeté?" Lydia raises a eyebrow. "Have you been researching ballet?"

"Research?" He shoots her a faux-innocent look, like he has no idea what she's talking about. "Oh, I don't know, maybe a little bit? Like, just a little light perusing, I watched the last ballet the Hales put up on their website. Uh, Giselle? And then I maybe watched like the last five after that but yeah, no, I didn't really do that much research."

"You watched their ballets?"

He shrugs sheepishly. "Yeah?"

Lydia shakes her head against the faint buzzing in her ears. "Why?"

He looks her up and down, his whole body twitching with electric energy. He's so kinetic in a way she isn't used to -the dancers she knows all move so precisely, every little movement deliberate and elegant. Stiles is more like a tornado, a whirlwind of barely contained energy.

"I guess I had a reason to be interested," he says.

She presses her left palm against the side of the car, trying to keep her focus on Stiles and not the way her body feels, like she's barely holding onto consciousness. "Well? What'd you think?"

She's mimicking his body language, she realizes, the way he's leaning casually against the car, one long leg crossed over the other at the ankle. "I thought it was pretty incredible," Stiles says. "I mean, I can't imagine being able to move like that, no wonder you have to practice so much."

"Really?" she asks softly, surprised.

"Yeah. You must be pretty incredible," he says in a low voice. "To be able to do stuff like that."

Lydia flushes at the compliment. "I'm not in the company yet."

"You have your big audition thing for your showcase next week, don't you?"

"Yeah, the evaluation."

"I'm supposed to say break a leg, right?"

She can't help but smile at that. "Yeah."

"Cool, I thought so." He shoots her a wistful glance. "Um, we should probably go, we've given them a pretty good head start."

She nods, watching him open the passenger door for her. Lydia turns to climb up into the Jeep but the world spins uncontrollably and she gasps, her body going cold, reaching out to catch herself against the side of the car, her vision blurring as her knees finally go out.

"Lydia!" Stiles catches her by the elbows, pulling her up and propping her against the car. "Hey, hey, Lydia, look at me!"

She blinks heavily, amber eyes resolving in front of her. "Stiles?" she whispers.

One of his hands come up to her forehead, like he's taking her temperature. "Hey," he murmurs. "Are you okay?"

She swallows thickly, fantasizing for one brief moment of dropping forward and pressing her face into his chest. And then she realizes where she is: in a parking lot with a boy she barely knows, a boy she nearly just passed out in front of, a boy who's normal, who doesn't deserve this.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, unable to tear her eyes away from his. "I'm fine, I just felt dizzy for a second."

"Are you sure?" He strokes this thumb over her hairline. "You looked like you were about to pass out."

"I'm okay," she says softly, because he looks so _worried_ and she doesn't want to scare him. "Stiles, I'm fine, it's probably just low blood sugar or something."

"Are you sure?"

She forces herself to smile. "I'm fine, really, we should go."

He looks like he doesn't believe her at all but Stiles still helps her into the car, shutting the door behind her and jogging around to the other side of the Jeep to get into the driver's seat. He turns the engine over and puts on his seatbelt before pulling out of the space, headlights illuminating the parking lot as he drives away from the school.

Lydia presses the side of her face against the window, the glass cool on her skin. She can't believe she almost fainted like that, she can't afford to be making these kind of mistakes. The casting for the showcase is going up on Thursday - she's supposed to be focused on her technique, the impending evaluation, getting her body ready for the next two months.

She thinks about Derek Hale's hand patting her stomach, remembering what he told her.

She's supposed to be strong but right now all she feels is weak.

When they get to the diner Scott and Allison are already there, waiting for them outside the entrance. Stiles parks and as soon as the doors unlock Lydia swings down from her seat like she has something to prove, smoothing her hands over her coat. Stiles rushes around to her and Lydia steps back to let him shut the car door for her.

Stiles threads his fingers through hers and she's too shocked by the warmth of his palm to let go. She isn't dizzy anymore but she still feels unstable, she can't deny the comfort it gives her to have his weight under her palm, unafraid of falling as long as he's holding on to her.

Allison raises an eyebrow at her as they approach, clearly noticing their linked hands. Lydia glares at her, mentally begging her not to say anything. To her relief Allison just smiles and slings an arm around Lydia's shoulders as they all follow Scott into the diner. It's cute, nondescript, black and white tiled floor, booths along both walls and a row of tables in the center.

A few guys from their lacrosse team are already sitting in a booth. Lydia zones out during the introductions and finds herself wedged into a red vinyl booth between Stiles and Allison; she picks up a laminated menu with shaking fingers. She skipped dinner, like an _idiot_ , and now she's paying for it, she's not usually this reckless.

It's just stress, she tells herself. It's almost here, the moment she's been waiting for since she was a level one, she's under a lot of pressure. It's not like she's not eating on purpose, she just forgets sometimes. It's not like she has a problem.

She's a level eight student of the Hale School of Ballet. She can't afford to have a problem.

Next to her Allison giggles and shrugs under Scott's arm. She looks relaxed, happy, her long limbs loose and tension-free, sipping a Coke that's not even diet. Maybe Allison is right. Maybe Lydia needs a night off, one night to pretend that she's a normal high school girl, a few hours where her entire life doesn't revolve around ballet.

When the waitress comes Lydia allows herself to order a strawberry smoothie. Allison shoots her a pleased smile and Lydia can't help but smile back because it feels good, to have Allison's approval. Lydia loves Allison but sometimes it feels like Allison doesn't really understand her - her intensity, her ruthlessness, all of her type A tendencies. 

She knows all the girls in her level but Allison is her only real friend, the person who keeps her connected to the world outside of school. Without Allison her life would be reduced to taking class, practicing, rehearsals, and her mother.

Lydia _needs_ her, her friendship, her affection, the person Lydia trusts more than anyone. Even if Allison is a lying little shit sometimes she's only doing it because she's trying to help.

Allison witnessed the aftermath of her breakup with Jackson firsthand last year, of course she wants Lydia to get over him, apparently by getting under somebody else. If Lydia was in a different place mentally where she could afford the distraction it would be a no-brainer but she's not, she's approaching the penultimate moment of her life thus far - get a good role in the showcase and all of this, every sacrifice, every drop of blood and sweat will have been worth it.

Allison leans over her, lips pressed against her ear. "You okay?" she whispers.

Lydia nods, squeezing Allison's thigh under the table. Allison gives her a peck on her cheek and leans back against Scott, who kisses the top of her head absentmindedly while ordering a burger. Lydia feels her cheeks flush and she looks away, hating herself for being jealous of something she doesn't even really understand.

Next to her she can feel Stiles' thigh barely press against her own. He's talking to one of the guys sitting across from them, his hands flying in the air as he speaks. Lydia leans slightly to her left until her hip is right up against his. Stiles doesn't say anything but he shoots a quick glance at her, almost like he's surprised. Lydia looks up at the ceiling innocently and takes a sip of her water.

When her smoothie comes she has to resist holding the rim of the glass up to her mouth and drinking it in one long gulp. She wraps her lips around the straw and sucks, her tongue lighting up with creamy/cool/sweet. She counts to ten between sips, eyeing the absurdly large plate of curly fries the waitress sets down in front of Stiles.

He rubs his hands together, looking down delightedly at his food before grabbing the ketchup and smacking a fat red blob onto the side of the plate. Lydia's mouth waters, staring at the salt glittering on the fries. Stiles grabs three at once, dunks them in ketchup and shoves them all in his mouth before moaning pornographically. Lydia turns away and sticks the straw back in her mouth, sucking on her smoothie. 

"Stiles, can I have some?" Allison stretches one slim arm over Lydia and grabs a handful of his fries before waiting for him to answer.

"Sure, go right ahead," Stiles says dryly. "It's not like you could've ordered your own."

"They taste better when they aren't mine," Allison says nonchalantly, and folds them into her mouth.

Lydia chews at the end of her straw, watching them tease each other back and forth, envious of the way Allison seems to easily insert herself into these kind of social situations. Maybe it's because Allison traveled so much with her parents before she started boarding at HSB, she's used to being thrown headfirst into new places with new people.

It's like having a specific skill set - Lydia was raised to be gracious and polite, she knows the proper etiquette for the world she was brought up in: all the little unsaid rules of taking class, what fork to start with at a formal dinner, how to flirt with an audience and make them fall in love with her when she's onstage. She knows how to be beautiful, how to be sexy, how to be demure and submissive, how to be the girl they all want her to be - her mother, her teachers, her choreographers.

A prima in the making, devoted wholly to the art of the dance, someone who doesn't sully her body with sugar and carbs or waste her time with boys from the public high school.

She doesn't know how to do this - laugh with kids her own age, relax her perfect facade, blend in. A wave of anxiety hits her when she realizes she's going to have to stay up late to stretch because she can't skip it, she has to stick to her routine. She taps her fingers against the table, counting to ten, and when that doesn't calm her down she does it again; she makes it up to seven when Stiles suddenly snatches her hand and pulls it off the table.

Lydia stares up at him, her left hand cradled in his palm, resting on the top of his thigh under the table where no one can see. He curls his fingers over her hand and squeezes. It goes right through her: she curls in towards him, something deep in her stomach contracting, her body flooding with heat.

He frowns down at her. _Okay?_ , he mouths.

She nods slowly, hypnotized, shivering when his thumb runs over the back of her hand. He winks, so quickly she almost misses it, and jumps backs into conversation with Scott and Allison, leaving Lydia sitting there next to him, stunned, staring at her empty smoothie glass while Stiles idly traces patterns over her skin.

The rest of the night passes in a blur; the bill somehow gets paid, goodbyes are made. Lydia ends up standing on the sidewalk outside with Stiles and Allison. Allison tucks a curl behind her ear, looking very pleased with how everything is going.

"I'm just gonna say goodby to Scott," she tells Lydia, who nods wearily, the phantom touch of Stiles' fingers still hot on her skin.

Allison walks up to where Scott is standing next to the passenger side of the Jeep, throws her arms around his neck, and they kiss. And kiss. And kiss.

Next to Lydia, Stiles snorts. "You'd think I'd be used to this by now, but nope."

"They are kind of insufferable," she adds.

"Hey." When she looks up he's staring right at her. "You sure you're feeling okay?"

"I'm fine," she says quickly, and flashes him a big fake smile. "So you can stop worrying now."

"I'm just saying, you probably shouldn't drive if you feel like"-

"There's no need to finish that sentence," she snaps. "Everything. Is. Fine. Okay?"

He narrows his eyes at her. "Uh-huh. _Sure_."

She squares off to face him, her hands curled up into fists at her sides. "That didn't exactly sound like an okay." She winces internally when it comes out sounding snide.

"What do you care," he fires back. "It's not like we're dating, I don't owe you anything."

"I don't care," she spits out, but her voice is so high and tinny that even she can hear that it sounds like she's lying.

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that." He flips the hood of his sweatshirt over his hair and jams his hands in his pockets.

Stiles stares out at the street, his expression hard and shuttered. Next to him Lydia shrinks, defeated, her cheeks flushing with shame. Who the hell does he think he is, talking to her like that? He doesn't even _know_ her.

Next to the Jeep Scott and Allison are full-on making out, one of his hands is spread flat over her ass and there is definitely spit being exchanged. Lydia doesn't have the heart to break them up, she knows they hardly get any opportunities to be alone. She shivers, freezing even with her coat, bouncing her knees so her legs don't lock up, the wind making her eyes water.

Stiles glances back over his shoulder at her. "You cold?"

She nods, refusing to make full eye contact, shoulders hunched against the wind.

"Alright." He cups his hands over his mouth. "Three minute warning!" he calls out, and Scott gives him a thumbs up over Allison's shoulder.

"You could wait for Allison in your car," Stiles suggests.

"She has the keys," Lydia explains stiffly. She refuses to do it anyway, prove him right by admitting she's not okay.

She's fine. Everything's fine. She's a ballerina, she lives and breathes control. She knows what she's doing.

Although it would be nice if she wasn't freezing her ass off. Tears stream down her cheeks from the harsh wind and she wipes her face with the back of her hand, sniffing pathetically as her teeth chatter. Fucking Northern California nights, fucking deserts. 

"Look, it's actually hurting me to watch this," Stiles says, and holds his arm out to her. 

"What?" she asks coldly, the effect somewhat ruined by how hard she's shivering. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. "What do you mean, _what_ , you're obviously freezing. C'mere."

Lydia shuffles closer to him warily, unsure of what he wants. Stiles huffs and wraps his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. "Jeesh, come on, don't be mad at me, I'm trying to save you from hypothermia here."

"I'm not mad," she mumbles. Her back is to Scott and Allison now, Stiles the only thing she sees, his broad chest in his red sweatshirt level with her eyes, even in her heeled boots.

He rubs his hands up and down her back over her coat and she can't hold back a shudder, heat skittering down her spine. She reaches out hesitantly and rests her hands on his hips over his jeans, realizing that she doesn't remember the last time someone held her.

She doesn't even really remember Jackson holding her, not like this, so sweet and gentle, like she's made of glass. Jackson always came in hot, flinging Lydia around like she weighed nothing, pulling and pushing her at will and she always let him because he was her pas de deux partner, her boyfriend, she was supposed to let go and trust that he would always catch her.

She trusted him.

"Better?" Stiles asks quietly.

Lydia nods, pushing against that urge again to drop her face to his chest, rub her icy cheek against the hollow of his throat. "Hey," she murmurs, blinking up at him. "I wouldn't drive if I wasn't okay, alright? I'm not stupid."

His tongue darts out to wet his lips and suddenly Lydia realizes that if he tilted his head down just a fraction they'd be at the perfect height to kiss. "I don't think you're stupid," he says. "Incredibly stubborn maybe, but not stupid."

"Sorry," she mutters, guilt squirming in her stomach because all he really did was express concern for her and she practically bit his head off. "I don't do this a lot."

He squints at her. "Do what?"

"The whole... caring about people thing," she says vaguely, resolutely staring at his shoulder.

"No shit," he snorts, and when she glances up at his face his lips are twitching like he's holding back a smile. "It's okay, I like you anyway."

To her horror her cheeks flush and she's so embarrassed she misses her window to come back at him with something witty. She's frozen, staring up at his face, her body melting against his touch.

"Good," she whispers.

His eyes widen. "You're still too busy with all your ballet stuff to date anyone, right?"

She nods slowly. "Right."

He hums thoughtfully. "What about friends?"

"Friends?"

"Yeah, you know, friends. People you get food with, or hug, or talk to, or cheer on at their lacrosse game"-

"Or see you dance?" She doesn't even mean to ask it, the question slides right out of her mouth.

"Yeah," he says softly. "I'd love to see you dance."

"Hey!" Lydia flinches at the sound of Allison's voice and steps out of Stiles' hold. Allison is right behind her, giving her a look that is both hopeful and inquiring. "I'm ready to go."

"Okay," Lydia says evenly, cursing Allison's timing.

"I have your keys, I'll go warm up the car for you and let you say goodbye to Stiles." Allison skips to the car, blowing a kiss at Scott, who's waiting for Stiles in the passenger seat of the Jeep.

"Look," Stiles says, once Allison is in the car and out of hearing distance. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have"-

"It's fine," she says quickly. "I just - I don't need anyone to be worried about me, I'm under enough pressure at school."

He nods, looking serious, like he's really listening. "Okay, I get it."

"Okay."

He gives her a tentative look. "So would you mind terribly if I asked you to text me when you get home tonight, just so I know you didn't like, pass out and crash your car into a tree?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Anxious much?"

He shrugs and stares down at his shoes, she clearly unintentionally hit a nerve. "Yeah, I can't really help it. At this point it's basically engrained in my personality."

"That's the kind of question a friend would ask," Lydia points out gently.

Stiles looks up at her hopefully. "Yeah."

She sighs, trying to remember that feeling she had when she got her smoothie, pretending to be normal for two minutes, pretending that she isn't afraid. That she could learn how to let go again and trust someone. "Okay."

"Okay?" He says it a little incredulously, like he's sure he heard her wrong.

"Okay, I'll text you when I get home," she confirms. "Just so you don't spend an inordinate amount of time worrying for no reason."

His face splits into a grin. "Yeah?"

 _Let go_ , she thinks desperately. Just a little. Just enough for her to get that warmth back. "It's what friends do, right?"

"Yeah." Stiles' eyes are soft and bronze in the dim light. "Friends care about each other." 

"Friends," she repeats, whispering. Its just one word but it feels weighted, significant.

He rubs the back of his hand over his lips. "We should go, they're waiting for us."

She startles, how is it she's lost track of time already? "Yeah, okay."

"I'll talk to you later?"

She manages a dry smile. "Goodnight, Stiles."

"Goodnight, Lydia." He doesn't hug her but he does look her up and down, offer a soft grin as he passes by her to get to the Jeep.

Lydia lets herself into her mother's car, where Allison is waiting in the passenger seat, practically bouncing with excitement. Lydia holds a hand up to her, indicating for her to wait quietly while she watches Stiles start his car, back the Jeep out of its parking space and drive away.

"Okay," Lydia sighs, staring out the windshield. "Hit me, I can take it."

"Did you have a good time?" Allison squeals. "Do you like him? I know I said I wouldn't push but it seemed like you guys were really getting along"-

"Yes," Lydia bites out. "I like him, are you happy now?"

"You like him?" Allison shrieks. "I knew it! I _knew_ you liked him! Did you hear that, universe? _Lydia Martin likes a guy!_ "

"I hate you," Lydia mutters. She starts the car and turns the headlights on, reverses carefully out of the parking space and turns onto the street. "This doesn't change anything, okay?"

"Lydia."

"I'm not kidding, Allison."

"Geez, would it kill you be happy for like _two seconds_?"

"No, sorry, I don't have two seconds right now, casting goes up on _Thursday_."

"I know," Allison says. "But I'm not going to let that control my entire life."

"Good for you," Lydia whispers under her breath.

"Hey." Allison reaches over and squeezes her thigh. "Everything's going to fine. You're going to get a great role in the showcase."

"I fucking better." 

"You will." Allison turns the radio up and leans back in her seat. "We're going to get everything we wanted."

Lydia turns her head and Allison smiles brilliantly at her. Lydia can't resist smiling back, flipping her braid over her shoulder. She drives to HSB and lets Allison out of the car, watching her run up the sidewalk and dart inside the glass doors. They have a later curfew on the weekends, ten pm, if Allison goes straight up to their room she'll make bed check. Lydia pulls away from the curb, singing along softly to the radio as she drives back through Beacon Hills.

When she gets home she parks in the driveway and lets herself inside the house. All the lights are off, her mother must be asleep. Lydia locks the front door behind her and tiptoes upstairs, turns the lamp on in her room and peels off her coat. She kicks off her boots and changes into a pair of Nike pro [shorts](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529114771318) and a bralette. She stretches on her yoga mat for twenty minutes before giving up, her limbs heavy with fatigue. Lydia yanks on a tee shirt over her bra and shorts and takes her makeup off in the bathroom, sprays her hair with dry shampoo and pulls it up into a high ponytail, and brushes her teeth.

When she's back in her room she grabs her phone, turns off the lamp and crawls into bed. She opens up her text thread with Stiles, staring down at the screen, her bottom lip held between her teeth.

Finally she settles for concise yet friendly, and types out _Home safe. Goodnight, friend._ There, she thinks smugly, and hits send. She proved that she was fine, she acknowledged their new friendship status, it's perfect.

A minute later her phone buzzes with a text back from Stiles. _I'm glad. Goodnight, friend._

She stares down at her phone for a long time, wondering if she should say something else, like _I'm sorry_ , or _be patient with me_ or even _you shouldn't like me_ , but in the end all she does is turn off her phone and put it down on her nightstand. Lydia curls up against her pillow and shuts her eyes, replaying it over and over again until she falls asleep: Stiles, holding her, lighting her skin on fire.


	5. announcements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, I had an unexpected personal thing come up and as a result I got really behind on this but I'm back :)

Saturday night is the annual Hale Ballet Company Spring Gala. Lydia's new [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529115285890) has been hanging in her closet for six weeks waiting to be worn tonight - it's lavender silk chiffon, covered with tiny beads and a filmy skirt that swirls around her legs. Lydia curls her hair and pushes it back with a delicate gold filigree headband of tiny sculpted metal roses and vines. She does soft makeup: blush and shimmery beige eyeshadow, dark brown mascara, paints her lips light pink and brushes sheer gold highlighter over her cheekbones.

The Spring Gala is a _huge_ event for HBC. It's technically for the donors, angel investors, people who pour donations into the company, one night for them to see the dancers up close and rub shoulders with the Hales. The whole company will be there, everyone who works for the company and the school will be in attendance as well as her classmates, all the level eights are invited - it's their opportunity to schmooze with company members, the Hales, anyone who could advance their careers.

She has to look perfect.

Lydia straps on a pair of gold sandals that tie around her ankles like her pointe shoes and goes downstairs. Her mother is waiting for her in the foyer by the front door wearing a midnight blue floor length gown, a beaded black shawl wrapped around her shoulders. They get in the car and drive through downtown Beacon Hills to the Beacon Hills Civics Center where the gala is. There's valet parking out front, Lydia is assisted out of the car by a valet in a tuxedo. She shivers in her cream colored satin trench coat, her fingers curled around the straps of her cross body-bag.

When they go inside they go to the coat check first; Lydia takes her ticket and sticks it into her bag, following her mother through the lobby to the ballroom where the gala is being held. She rubs her bare arms as she turns slowly on the parquet floor, taking it in: the ballroom is lit by huge twinkling glass chandeliers hanging from the domed ceiling. Circular tables covered in snowy white tablecloths are scattered around the room, stopping in front of a small platform stage on the far side of the ballroom.

Pink roses are everywhere: arranged with baby's breath in gilded vases in the center of each table, twisted into wreaths hanging on the walls, twined around little wicker baskets on one side of the stage. The baskets hold pairs of pointe shoes worn and signed by company members to be auctioned off at the end of the evening. There's a bar on one side of the ballroom, Lydia can see half the company milling around drinking champagne and being fawned over by the donors in their tuxedos and glittering evening gowns.

She spots Allison across the room sitting at a table with Isaac and Danny. Lydia says goodbye to her mother, who's already sizing up the donors for any available age-appropriate men and barely acknowledges her when Lydia walks away, weaving in between tables to get to her friends. Isaac and Danny are both wearing crisp black suit jackets over white dress shirts; Allison's in a floaty ivory A-line [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529115657741) that ties in a knotted bow around her neck, her hair down in loose shoulder-skimming waves.

"I love your dress!" Allison squeals, getting up from her chair to hug her. 

Lydia kisses her cheek and hugs her back, reaching up to smooth back her hair and straighten her headband before sitting down between Allison and Danny. "Any sightings yet?"

Danny grins. "Jordan Parrish is here."

"Excellent," Lydia murmurs, peering over Danny's shoulder at the group of company members huddled together by the bar.

Jordan Parrish is a soloist, one of the up and comers. Lydia's seen him around at company events before and he's cute, amazing body, if he continues to dance well he could be a principle soon, he's been slowly and steadily working his way up since he joined the company.

Danny sighs. "What's excellent is his ass in those pants."

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Focus, we're here for work, not play."

He grins, leaning back in his chair. "Why can't it be both?"

"On my god," Allison suddenly gasps, turning around in her chair to face the entrance to the ballroom. "Look."

Lydia sees Cora first, walking in with Malia. Cora looks incredible - she's wearing a wine colored crushed velvet [gown](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529174386246) with long sleeves and a trailing skirt, cut low in the front, her dark hair parted down the center in two thick braids woven with gold ribbons. Next to her Malia looks a little uncomfortable in her sleeveless black swing [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529174453847), her long legs boosted by silver stiletto heels that Lydia knows for a fact Malia can hardly walk in.

They aren't the reason why everyone in the ballroom has fallen nearly silent, though. Behind Cora and Malia is Derek Hale, wearing a gunmetal grey suit and facial hair that's just shy of a proper beard, and next to him is -

Lydia's mouth falls open and she reaches over to clutch Allison's hand in disbelief.

Next to Derek is Peter Hale.

Lydia's only seen him from a distance before. By the time she started at the school he was working for the company, she's occasionally caught glimpses of him in the hallways or up at the theater where the company performs in San Francisco. He's wearing a charcoal colored suit, no tie, his hair pushed back from his face so everyone can see his blue eyes. He scans the room with an intensity Lydia can feel from where she's sitting, watching everyone in the ballroom stare at him.

Peter leans over to Derek and whispers something. Derek snaps his fingers and music starts to play, something low and instrumental. Lydia can't take her eyes off of them, Derek and Peter Hale, men of legends, gatekeepers of her future. 

"What do you think he's doing here?" Allison whispers. "No one's seen him for months."

"I have no idea," Lydia murmurs.

People start to move again, conversation starting back up as Derek and Peter are surrounded by the crowd, Derek's fellow dancers, all the company members. Lydia sees Braden gives Derek a quick hug, her dark skin glowing against the yellow fabric of her dress. 

Erica and Boyd show up and sit down next to Isaac. Erica's hair is down and curly, her red lipstick perfectly matching her satin [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529174494811). "Holy shit, what is _he_ doing here?" Erica says loudly, reaching across Boyd to tousle Isaac's curls. 

Isaac ducks against her hand, leaning into Allison's space. "He's still a Hale," Isaac mutters. "Of course he's here."

"Hey guys!" Kira shows up next, claiming the last available chair between Erica and Danny, smoothing out the skirt of her metallic blue [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529174567673) as she sits down. "Did you see? Deucalion's here."

Lydia whips around, just in time to see him walk past the bar, deep in conversation with Derek. Deucalion is wearing all black and his trademark sunglasses, swinging his walking stick. Back in the day he used to dance with Talia Hale, Derek's mother; they were colleagues. He had some kind of accident at a conference a long time ago and had to retire from dancing, he started Alpha Academy and occasionally guest choreographed pieces for the Hale Ballet Company before he came in last fall to take over for Peter.

Lydia watches as Cora and Malia sit down at a table near the front. Peter sits down next to Malia while Derek sits next to Cora - the four remaining Hales, the center of the universe. Deucalion sits down next to Derek and a moment later Marin walks over to them in an elegant black sleeveless gown. She gives Peter a rather cool greeting, nodding her head at him and refusing his handshake, but she leans down to air-kiss Derek's cheek and whispers something to Deucalion before walking to a table filled mostly with the other teachers.

Everyone seems to take the Hales being seated as their cue to follow and caterers start to appear, bringing out salads and baskets of warm bread. Lydia picks at her romaine, stiffening when she sees Jackson sitting at another table with his parents. They donated an undisclosed amount of money to the school last spring for Marin to use at her discretion; Lydia's always assumed it's one of the reasons they took him back this year, beyond the fact that when it came down to it, it was an accident and well, accidents happen.

She barely makes it through her salad before the plates are being replaced by the main course, halibut with mango salsa and a side of garlic mashed potatoes. Lydia carefully picks up her fork and scrapes the salsa off her fish before taking a bite, chewing slowly and taking a sip of water. The room is noisy with the sounds of everyone eating and talking, the adults all steadily getting drunk. Lydia taps her fork nervously against her plate and looks up from her food so she can't be distracted by the presence of the potatoes.

Across the room Malia pushes her chair back from the table with a screech. Lydia watches idly as Malia gets up and walks quickly between the tables, head down to stare at her feet so she doesn't trip, and leaves the ballroom. 

"What's that about?" Allison whispers, staring at the doors when they swing shut.

Lydia dips her fork into the salsa, brings it to her mouth and licks, just once. "I have no idea."

She pushes the plate away and drops her napkin over it so she can't change her mind, picks up her water glass and drains it. There's a hushed murmur that starts towards the front of the ballroom, heads turning in the direction of the Hales' table. Lydia leans into Danny, who shifts his chair to the side and casually slings his arm around her so that she can see what's going on. Derek's gotten up and is walking to the front of the stage, holding a full glass of champagne.

He climbs the few steps up onto the stage and looks out at everyone, waiting patiently while the room falls silent. "Good evening," he finally says. "I'd like to take a moment to thank you all for being here with us tonight."

There's a smattering of applause, Derek nods graciously and waits for it to stop before continuing. "I'd like to especially thank all of you here who support our company with your generous donations. We wouldn't be able to do what we do without you. As you all know, this company - my family's company - was incredibly dear to my parents. They loved all of you and they loved this place. I speak on behalf of the company when I say we could not be more appreciative of the support the community of Beacon Hills has shown us."

More applause from the back tables filled with high society members of Beacon Hills, the ones that write checks to the company and frame their ballet programs on the walls. Derek gives everyone a small congratulatory smile, waiting for them to stop. 

"Since you're all gathered with us tonight it only seems fitting that you be the first to know where we as a company are headed. It has been a - trying season. We lost a member of our family who was incredibly talented. Irreplaceable. We've suffered. We've persevered, and it has been difficult but we survived and we will continue to survive. Because we are a family - a pack of people united by a singular artistic vision - and family sticks together."

Derek has to stop because all the company members suddenly stand up to face him. There's no gratuitous applause this time, the room falls absolutely silent as every dancer in the company steps back from their tables and in a single wave, like they'd planned it, bow and curtsy, performing a grand reverence to Derek. 

He blinks rapidly, looking a little stunned, and very briefly holds his hand out palm down to indicate for them to return to their seats. "Ladies and Gentleman," he says in a low voice. "It is my honor to announce that starting in the fall I will be taking over as the new Creative Director of the Hale Ballet Company."

The room explodes in loud gasps and chatter. Kira turns around in her chair to glance at Lydia and Allison, who both nod at her in shock; the rumor Kira heard from Malia was true. Derek is taking over the company.

"I'd like to take a moment to thank Deucalion for gifting us with his time and creative vision in our hour of need." Derek holds his glass up and Deucalion toasts him back, holding up his hand when people start to applaud. "And I'm thrilled to say that's he's agreed to stay on until the end of this season and stage our spring ballet, Coppélia, which will start its run May twelfth, so put it on your calendars."

There's generous laughter from the donors; Derek gives them a small grin, like he's flirting with his audience. "There's another announcement I need to make." He glances up at the ceiling for a moment and rolls his shoulders. "I've made the decision to retire before the season is over, effective now that our run of Giselle has ended. My position in the company will be replaced by Jordan Parrish. Jordan has been a dedicated soloist with us and we're thrilled to see him in a principle role."

Everyone in the room immediately starts whispering. No one has ever retired from the company mid-season before. Losing Laura was hard enough but what is Derek playing at, retiring before the season ends if he's not taking over for Deucalion until next fall?

"This is insane," Allison whispers. "He can't just quit."

"He just did," Danny points out.

Allison glances at Isaac, who looks unfazed by everything. "Did you know about this?"

Isaac starts to stutter something but falls silent when Derek clears his throat. "Thank you," Derek says when the crowd dies down. "I know this may all be a bit of a shock. I've been talking with Marin, our school director, and she's been kind enough to agree to let me work with her at the school this spring. Our students are the future of this company and I look forward to getting to know them better."

Allison elbows her, inevitably remembering their class last Monday with him. Lydia pinches her back, Derek isn't done talking.

"There's one more thing on our list of announcements so bear with me for a moment longer," Derek says with a dry smile. "Like I said, we're a family here, and family sticks together. With that I'd like to welcome back my uncle, Peter Hale, who will be guest choreographing a piece for our student showcase at the end of the school year. Thank you very much everyone, I hope you all enjoy your evening."

Derek hops off the stage where Peter is waiting, arms outstretched to embrace him. Lydia watches, her body thrumming with excitement. Peter Hale, one the most renowned and notorious choreographers in the world is coming to her school, choreographing a piece for her showcase.

Lydia has to be in it.

She saw what he did with Laura, turned her into one of the most incredible primas to ever grace the stage. If Lydia can get into his piece it's almost certainty a guarantee that she'll get accepted into the company. Peter Hale could make her career.

He could make her a star.

"Hey," Allison whispers. She's bent over, her phone in her lap. "You want to go to a party?"

Lydia gapes at her. "Right now?"

"Scott's at some lacrosse party not that far from here," Allison says hopefully.

"But - we haven't even talked to anyone yet."

Allison pouts. "Come on. The donors don't have anything to do with casting and this whole thing is really just a giant circle jerk of self-congratulations for them anyway. Deucalion's leaving, so he's out, which, honestly, I'm relieved about because he gives me the _creeps_."

"True," Lydia admits begrudgingly. 

"Derek's already seen you dance," Allison continues. "And he _loves_ you, obviously."

"Shut up, he does not."

"Lydia. He worked with you for almost five minutes in front of the entire class. He wouldn't have done that if he was just there to sub for Marin."

"You think?" Lydia murmurs, watching Derek shake hands with Jordan Parrish a few tables over. 

"Focus." Allison reaches down and pinches her side, making Lydia squirm. 

"We haven't met Peter yet," Lydia reminds her.

Allison blinks and stares down at her lap. "If he's choreographing he'll see us dance at the evaluation. I don't think I should officially meet him, anyway."

The thing is, Allison has a point. Lydia's seen it happen, when they've been at class or at a show and the word _Argent_ is said: the color drains out of people's faces, they look at Allison like she's something poisonous. Lydia's always admired Allison's toughness, for determinedly staying at their school even though Kate's ghost follows her around like a shadow. But she can understand why Allison would feel threatened here, in a room filled with people who loathe her aunt and occasionally, by extension, her.

"Is Stiles there?" Lydia doesn't really think before she asks it and then she regrets it when she sees the way Allison's eyes light up.

"Does that matter?" Allison says cheekily. "I thought you said," -

"We're friends," Lydia whisper-hisses. "It's not a big deal."

Allison leans back in her chair, grinning. "If you say so."

"I'm allowed to have friends," she snipes.

Allison laughs quietly. "Lydia, calm down, okay? I'm not judging you."

Lydia sighs, distracted, watching Peter join Derek and Jordan, the center of attention in the middle of a group of company members. "Is he going to be there or not?"

"Yeah, he's there," Allison says. "Come on, if we go now we can get out of having to flirt with gross old donors."

"Sold." Lydia kisses Danny's cheek in goodbye, gets up from her chair and slings her bag over her shoulder.

"Do you need to say goodbye to your mom?" Allison asks.

Lydia shakes her head, reaching down to grasp Allison's hand as they quickly walk through the room, out of the swinging gold doors and into the lobby. "I'll text her that we're going out for ice cream or something, she won't care as long as I'm back by midnight."

They go to the coat check and retrieve their coats, Lydia's doing up the last button on her trench coat when she hears someone call out, "Wait!"

Isaac's jogging through the lobby to catch up with them, looking a little desperate. "Can I come with you?" He pulls back his suit jacket, revealing a pilfered bottle of champagne.

Allison and Lydia exchange naughty smiles, Lydia honestly didn't know Isaac had it in him.

"Okay," Lydia says. "You can come but lets get the hell out of here before we get caught."

The three of them rush out of the lobby, pushing through the glass doors of the Civic Center to go outside. Malia's sitting at the top of the steps, her red and black checked bomber jacket wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She lifts her head when she hears the doors bang shut; her hair is wind blown and her eyes are a little watery.

"Hey," she says, looking self-conscious and surprised. "Where are you guys going?"

Lydia glances at Allison, who sighs thoughtfully, raising an eyebrow. Lydia rolls her eyes but nods in agreement. "We're going to a party, do you want to come?"

Malia's face lights up. "Really?"

The thing about Malia is she doesn't fit in with them - she hasn't been dancing with them their whole lives and she's really only close with Kira, her roommate. Malia has the honorary title of a Hale even though she doesn't share the surname but it's mostly just a title, her lineage has never been explained beyond 'distant cousin' and therefore no one really trusts her. She's not like Cora, the princess, Laura's rightly successor and therefor Malia is trapped between the Hales and the other dancers in their level, not really belonging to either group.

"Come on then," Lydia says. "Be careful on the steps."

"I'm getting better!" Malia protests, and almost falls right down the stairs, reaching out to clutch Lydia's hand as she gets up.

Lydia grips her fingers, shooting her an admonishing glance. "What have I told you about wearing shoes you can't walk in?"

"Cora made me," Malia mumbles. "I hate these stupid things."

The four of them walk down to the corner of the street and wait for a bus, huddled tightly in a knot on the sidewalk. Isaac isn't wearing a coat over his suit jacket and he hops up and down, carefully holding the champagne bottle to his chest.

"Where are we going?" Malia asks, reaching up to tuck a stray wave of honey brown hair behind her ear. 

"Townie party," Allison explains. "We're meeting Scott there."

"Scott McCall?" Malia asks.

"Yeah." Allison smiles dreamily. "We're dating."

"Really? I hadn't heard," Malia says dryly.

"You should open that now," Lydia tells Isaac. "We can pregame."

He gives her an evaluating look before smirking. "A girl after my own heart."

Lydia snorts, watching Isaac turn around and point the bottle away from everyone to uncork it with a _pop_. He tucks it back under his suit jacket, tilting his head towards the street, where the bus is coming. They all board, flashing their bus passes; the school provides them for all the students given that they don't really have a campus. They file along to the back of the bus; it's almost vacant except for a nurse in scrub pants sitting towards the front and a few teenage girls sharing headphones and lipgloss.

Isaac drops down onto the seat next to the window. Allison sits down next to him and pats the seat next to her for Lydia, leaving room for Malia to sit on the other end. Isaac glances around surreptitiously but no one is paying any attention to them. He lifts the bottle to his mouth and gulps before passing it to Allison, who takes a few sips and hands it to Lydia.

The bottle is cold and slippery with condensation. Lydia wraps her lips around it and tips her head back. The champagne is cool and sweet; Lydia swallows down a few gulps before passing the bottle to Malia, who tosses it back before turning her head to cough, her eyes watering as she gives the champagne back to Lydia.

She takes a few more sips and passes it back to Allison. They kill the entire bottle that way; by the time they get to their stop Lydia can tell they're all a little drunk - Isaac's blue eyes are glassy, Allison's cheeks are terribly flushed, and Malia has to hold onto Lydia with both hands to get off the bus so she doesn't fall down in her heels. Lydia curls her left hand around Malia's right as they cut across the grass over to the sidewalk. She reaches out for Allison, who's looking around at the street they're standing on. They're in one of the wealthy suburban pockets of Beacon Hills, all beautiful sprawling houses with perfectly maintained lawns and meticulously designed gardens.

Allison pulls her phone out, the light from the screen illuminating her pale skin. "Okay, I think it's just up the block," she says, pointing vaguely down the street.

Isaac slings his arm around Allison as she directs them up the street and starts walking. Lydia and Malia follow along behind them, Malia's palm hot against her skin. Lydia watches as Isaac trails his hand down Allison's back and she suddenly dips, falling perfectly back into his hand and spinning around him. Allison laughs and does a chassé down the sidewalk, reaching back to pull Isaac along with her in a goofy pas de deux.

"Save it for class!" Malia shouts. 

"Don't yell," Lydia reprimands. 

Malia rolls her eyes. "Even when you're drunk you're bossy."

"I'm not bossy!" Lydia protests. "That's such a patriarchal thing to say, if I was a guy you wouldn't tell me I was bossy."

Malia blinks rapidly before shrugging. "I'm too drunk to argue with you."

"Then focus on walking," Lydia mutters, yanking Malia back up when she stumbles.

"I think this is it!" Allison calls out, pointing to the house she's standing in front of.

It's big, with a stone turret on one side and a huge oak carved front door. Lydia and Malia pick up their pace to catch up with Allison and Isaac, who's staring at the house in awe. "Where are we exactly?" he asks.

"Um..." Allison glances down at her phone. "Brett Talbot's house. Scott says the door is open."

They all walk up to the steps and look at Allison, who shrugs and pushes the front door open. Inside it's immediately obvious that someone's throwing a rager. Electronic music is pounding so loudly Lydia can feel the floor shake under her feet. All the regular lights are turned off, the giant foyer is lit by strings of brightly colored Christmas lights.

Allison shrugs off her faux-fur hooded jacket and Lydia and Malia follow suit, Lydia unbuttons her trench and folds it up with Malia's bomber jacket, hands them to Allison so she can stash them in the hall closet.

"Come on, I think they're in the kitchen." Allison reaches down and grabs Lydia's hand, who turns back to adjust her grasps on Malia.

They turn left and enter a huge sunken living room, an ocean of teenagers drinking from red solo cups and dancing in that loose, disconnected way drunk people do. They squeeze through the crowd, hands linked together, Isaac parting the way for them as they cross the room. Isaac hooks right and walks under an alcove into a large country style kitchen - there's a long carved wooden table, copper pots hanging artfully from the ceiling. There's a keg in one corner and a large crystal bowl filled with something that looks like pink lemonade and vodka based on the empty bottles stacked on the kitchen island.

"Scott!" Allison calls out, dragging them all across the room where Scott's standing with Stiles and a girl with wavy blond hair.

"Hey!" Scott leans in to give Allison a hug and a quick kiss. "This is Lori, she and her brother are throwing the party."

"What Scott means is my brother Brett is throwing the party and I'm supervising to make sure nothing gets trashed." Lori grins and slides past them. "Have fun, we've got beer and vodka lemonade, help yourselves."

"She's nice," Allison says casually, leaning in to kiss Scott again. 

Lydia feels a tiny tremor of envy at the sign of affection. She misses it, being close to someone that way, the comfort of having someone's body pressed against hers.

"Yeah, Brett's kind of intense but he throws great parties," Scott says, taking a sip from his cup. "Hey Isaac, I didn't know you were coming."

Scott and Isaac do one of those bro-hugs, all back pounding and shoulder slapping. "Isaac, have you met Stiles?"

Isaac shakes his head, glancing at Stiles apprehensively. Lydia watches Stiles give him the same look right back before he holds out his hand to Isaac. "Hey man, you're Allison's dance parter, right?"

Isaac shakes his hand, glancing at Allison out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah."

When Isaac doesn't elaborate Stiles nods, glancing over at Lydia and Malia, grinning. "Hey Lydia."

"Hi Stiles." Lydia swallows, suddenly feeling the champagne in her system, her stomach warm and heavy. "This is Malia, she dances with us at school."

"Hey, how's it going?" he says, eyes flicking down to where Malia is still clinging to Lydia's hand.

Lydia watches Malia evaluate him, tipping her head to the side. "I'm kind of drunk and my cousin made me wear shoes I can't walk in without tripping," Malia announces flatly.

Lydia rolls her eyes up at the ceiling and lets out a long-suffering sigh. "Malia."

"What? He asked!" Malia sways in her heels, fingers tightening around Lydia's hand.

Next to Stiles Scott looks like he's trying not to laugh at Malia's antics. "Do you guys want drinks?"

Allison hums thoughtfully. "Lydia, do you want to share a lemonade?"

"Sure," Lydia says, thinking that she wasn't ready for this, a real party, with boys and alcohol, all the things her mother has warned her about.

She's supposed to keep her body pure, she's supposed to stay away from liquor and boys but now she's here and well, when in Rome, right? It's one night, she deserves one night of fun before rehearsals for the showcase start.

"I want lemonade," Malia says loudly.

"I don't think you need one," Lydia murmurs, ignoring Allison's elbow in her side as they turn around and walk over to the island.

Scott's drinking a beer, he passes an empty cup to Isaac and points over to where the keg is. Allison picks up two cups and fills them both with vodka lemonade before passing one down to Malia. Malia holds the cup with two hands, taking a sip and crinkling her nose. Allison laughs sympathetically before taking a drink and passing her cup to Lydia.

Lydia gulps it down, feeling warm and floaty, watching Stiles out of the corner of her eye. He's stuck to Scott's side, talking in his ear while gesticulating rapidly and the music is so loud Lydia can't hear him even though she's pretty sure he's using his normal tone of voice.

"Stiles, do you want anything?" Allison asks.

"No I'm good, I'm driving tonight."

"Because you're the best!" Scott shouts, slinging one arm around Stiles and the other across Allison's shoulders. "You guys, my best friend _and_ my girlfriend are here, this is the best party ever!"

"Okay Scotty, I think you've had enough beer." Stiles shrugs under Scott's arm and claps him on the shoulder. "Why don't you ask Allison if she wants to dance with you?" 

Scott's eyes go big and round as he turns to face Allison. "Wanna dance?"

Allison giggles and kisses his cheek. "You're really cute when you're drunk."

"Are they always this gross?" Malia asks Stiles conversationally.

"Yeah, pretty much." Stiles pushes Scott gently in the direction of the living room and he leaves with Allison, who takes a quick gulp of lemonade and wiggles her eyebrows at Lydia as she leaves.

Isaac comes back with his beer and leans against the island next to Malia. "Wanna go explore?" he asks her.

Malia's eyes light up in a way that makes Lydia a little suspicious. "Okay!"

"Hey!" Lydia leans in between them and gives them both a stern look. "Don't even _think_ about touching anything."

Malia and Isaac both have a bit of a reputation for having sticky fingers. The second week Isaac was at school with them, back in level four, Jackson reamed him out for borrowing one of his shirts without asking and then told everyone in their level that Isaac took his shirt because he was so poor he only came to HSB with four shirts of his own. When Isaac heard what Jackson said he freaked out and they got in a fist fight in the middle of conditioning class. It was years ago but Isaac's never really gotten over it, his reputation as an unknown quantity, Camden's strange little brother whose father basically gave him over to Derek and the school and never looked back. 

Malia on the other hand is a bit of a scavenger, likely to sneak things that don't belong to her into her room and stash them. Apples from the cafeteria, Cora's rhinestone studded hair clips, band-aides right out of the box in Nurse McCall's office.

Malia scowls at her. "I told you to stop bossing-"

"Okay!" Lydia slaps her palm over Malia's mouth. "Go have fun, you two."

Isaac winks and slinks away, Malia following him after wiping her mouth and sticking her tongue out at Lydia. "Real mature," Lydia calls out, watching Malia give her the finger as she walks away with Isaac.

"So," Stiles says, looking amused. "Those are your friends."

"Sorry," Lydia apologizes. "They were raised by wolves."

He laughs. "No, it's cool, they're definitely not boring, right?"

Lydia watches his face, the little crinkles in the corners of his eyes that deepen when he smiles. "We're dancers, I guess we all have intense personalities. Comes with the territory."

"Yeah, you'd have to be pretty intense to willingly torture your feet like that," he jokes.

Lydia takes a sip of her lemonade. "Little tip, don't bring up dancers' feet. We're very touchy about it."

Stiles nods very seriously. "Noted. None offense meant."

Lydia flashes him a quick smile. His face is blurry in the dim rainbow of lights, or maybe it's the alcohol. "None taken."

He tilts his head at her, sending gold light and shadow trailing across his face. "Did you want to dance?"

She makes a face. "Definitely not."

"But - you're a _dancer_."

"And I dance four to five hours a day when I'm at school, not to mention I have a very specific training schedule." She licks her lips, her tongue sticky-sour from her drink. "Besides, I wouldn't exactly call what they're doing over there dancing."

Stiles leans in a bit towards her to glance over at the living room where everyone's thrashing around. "I think it's called having fun."

"Getting crushed by a bunch of guys all trying to grab my ass? No thanks." Lydia tilts her head back and swallows back the rest of the lemonade in the cup, realizing too late that she drank almost the entire thing.

He shuffles a bit, his side brushing up against her. "I wouldn't let you get crushed."

She freezes, hands reaching down to twist in the fabric of her dress now that she isn't holding the cup. "Maybe later."

"Okay," he says easily.

"What's the party for anyway?" Lydia asks, leaning her elbows against the counter.

"Two reasons - it's the start of spring break, plus Brett got captain of his lacrosse team at Devenford prep. That's how we know him, he and Scott are sort of buddies from lacrosse."

"Sort of?"

Stiles shrugs. "You know, enemies on the field, friends off the field."

"Oh." Lydia nods, thinking of her relationship with Erica and Cora, girls she's known she was ten, constant competitors but also friends in a strange way. "I've never been to a high school party before."

His eyes go comically wide. "Wait, really? Seriously?"

She blinks, his face suddenly blurring in front of her. _How much vodka was in that drink?_ "Yeah. I'm not even supposed to be here."

"Where are you supposed to be?"

"We had this thing for the company tonight, it's called the Spring Gala. It's for the donors, everyone gets all dressed up and flirts with the dancers and buys their old pointe shoes, it's this whole big thing."

Stiles looks amused. "Yeah?"

"It's a big deal for us, it's a way to meet people in the company." Lydia works her jaw, her tongue loose in her mouth. "Honestly it's fucking boring."

"So you all ditched?"

"Allison has a way of pulling us all along in her wake," Lydia muses. "My mother doesn't even know where I am."

Stiles laughs. "Yeah, my dad thinks I'm playing video games at Scott's and vice versa. It's unbelievable the kind of shit we can get away with when our parents both work night shifts."

Lydia wrinkles her forehead. Her face feels a little funny, like she's cold and warm at the same time. "Nurse McCall works on the weekends too?"

"Yeah, she picks up night shifts at the Beacon Hills ER sometimes," Stiles explains.

"Oh, I didn't know that," she murmurs.

Stiles nods and launches off into a story about him and Scott, reminiscing about the trouble they used to get into when they were younger. Lydia is content to stand next to him, his words punctuating the beats in the music. His hand is spread flat over the countertop, right next to hers and Lydia thinks about it, sliding her pinkie over until their fingers touch. She's warm all over but sort of numb too, like she could fall over right now and she wouldn't feel a thing but she's not going to, she's fallen once and she's never falling again, _nope_ , not ever. Her right hand creeps down her side, sliding into the hollow between her ribs where the cartilage tore.

She shivers, remembering the sound it made when she slammed into the floor, how the air rushed out of her lungs and her mouth had gaped open, staring up at horrified faces as she choked and gasped. It still makes her nauseous to think about, pain like a wildfire spreading down her side.

A hand cups over her shoulder and Lydia jumps, almost slipping in her heels. She reaches out for Stiles in an attempt to recalibrate her equilibrium, digging her fingers into the fabric of his yellow and brown plaid shirt as his arm slides across her shoulders.

"Hey." His face blurs and splits, twin Stiles staring at her. "Lydia, are you okay?"

She blinks heavily, trying to get him to resolve into something other than a sickening swirl of yellow-brown. "You look like a grilled cheese sandwich," she tells him seriously, because it seems like the kind of thing he should be aware of.

He squints at her. "Okay, how drunk are you?"

"Oh I don't get drunk," she tells him. "I'm explicitly not allowed to get drunk because I'm a ballet dancer and alcohol is all sugar, and sugar makes you _fat_ " - she whispers it, like it's a dirty word - "and ballet dancers are not allowed to get fat."

It's like word vomit, sentences completely bypassing her brain and spilling out of her mouth. "You have to be able to see the _line_ Stiles, the line is very, very important. So you see, I can't be drunk because sugar will ruin my lines and I have to have _perfect_ lines or I won't get a good role in the showcase and I haven't been busting my ass my whole life to wind up dancing in the back of the corp where no one will see me."

"Okay, so pretty drunk," he concludes. "Did you have something before you got here?"

"Isaac swiped a bottle of champagne. We shared it."

His thumb runs over her bare shoulder and Lydia can't hold back a tremor, her body singing at his touch, something crawling under her skin begging for more. "Are you okay?" he asks, sounding adorably concerned. "Do you need water?"

She looks up at him and immediately shuts her eyes because there are still two of him and it's hurting her head. It all slams into her at once - she's at a party, at a strangers house, and she's definitely not okay because her whole body is spinning even though she's standing still and her stomach is contracting like an empty fist. She isn't supposed to be here, she's supposed to be at home doing five hundred crunches and leg lifts before going to bed at a reasonable hour because she's a ballet dancer and she's supposed to sacrifice things like fun and parties and liquor and boys.

She's never had a problem with that before. She's always been so good, a perfect dancer, she's going to be a prima ballerina, just like Jackson was going to be a principal. She used to dream about them dancing together in iconic roles one day - Romeo and Juliet, Odette/Odile and the Prince, Don Quixote and Kitri.

"Lydia!" She blinks, suddenly Stiles is very close to her, peering down at her face. "Really, are you okay?"

A wave of panic overtakes her - Stiles is right here, just like she wanted, and he's _worried_ and she feels bad because she likes him, oh god, she actually really _likes_ him and she doesn't want him to look at her like that, like he can feel the tornado swirling under her skin. She isn't supposed to want this, his hands on her, holding the storm at bay. 

"I need Allison," she blurts out.

"Okay." He peers over her shoulder, looking into the living room. "I think she's still dancing with Scott."

"But I _need_ her, I need Allison right now!" The words comes out slightly hysterical but she's too drunk to care because that's the entire problem - she's drunk and she _doesn't_ care, she's drunk and she wants Stiles even though she shouldn't. She can feel her world spinning out of control and it's terrifying.

"Okay, c'mon, it's okay." His arm tightens around her as he guides her into the living room, standing at the edge of a massive group of people. "Hey, look, see? There she is."

Allison and Scott are leaning up against the wall, talking with Isaac, Malia and a tall, lanky boy Lydia doesn't know. Stiles cuts through the crowd, making sure Lydia doesn't trip as they push through the room. Allison smiles when she sees them, tipping her head back against Scott's arm. "Hey guys, are you having fun?"

"I have to go to the bathroom," Lydia says emphatically.

Allison tilts her head. "Are you okay?"

Lydia sways back into Stiles. "I drank all your lemonade."

"Which was mostly vodka," Stiles adds.

"Okay." Allison disentangles herself from Scott and reaches for Lydia's hand. "Come on, I think there's one down the hallway."

"First door on the right," the tall guy confirms, he must be Brett.

Lydia lets Allison pull her away, focusing on her hand in hers, that point of contact, floating through the room and down a hallway past the foyer. Allison pushes lightly on a door and it swings open to reveal a bathroom, peach and gold wallpaper, marble floor tile, a large porcelain sink, the toilet hidden in one corner behind a screen.

Allison shuts the door behind them and Lydia slides down the wall, curling over until her forehead is pressed against the cool tiled floor.

"Lydia, oh my god, are you okay?" She can feel Allison crouch down next to her, her hand sliding under Lydia's curls to rub her back.

"This is all your fault," Lydia accuses drunkenly, reaching up behind herself to clutch Allison's hand.

"Excuse me, I wasn't the one pouring vodka down your throat," Allison says a bit sharply. "You really shouldn't drink this much on an empty stomach."

"I ate dinner," Lydia mumbles into the floor.

"Pretty sure one ounce of fish doesn't count as an actual meal," Allison counters.

Lydia swallows back something bitter. "I wasn't aware you were keeping track."

"Well I am," Allison says. "So don't blame me, you're supposed to be smarter than this."

"No, not _that_ ," she moans. "Stiles."

Allison squeezes her fingers. "I don't think I understand."

"I _like_ him," Lydia wails pathetically.

"Okay, I think you should sit up." Allison hauls her off the floor and Lydia slumps back against the wall. "Lydia, its fine. It's okay to like him."

She shakes her head and groans when the walls spin. "I can't - I can't - not again, I can't do it again."

"Hey." Allison's hands are suddenly cupped over her cheeks so they're face to face. "Lydia, Stiles is _not_ Jackson. Okay?"

Lydia blinks heavily, suddenly afraid she's going to cry. It's been almost a year but it feels like it just happened - his words like poison in her ear, her body slipping through his hands.

"Hey, Lydia, no." Maybe she is crying because Allison runs her thumbs under Lydia's eyes, eyeliner smearing over her fingertips. "Lydia, listen to me. I won't let you get hurt again, I promise. Okay?"

"Okay." Lydia sniffs and presses her face into Allison's shoulder. 

Allison sighs and wraps her arms around her and this is why Lydia loves Allison - as pushy as she is sometimes, so determined it's almost irritating - she knows Allison loves her, Allison would die to protect her, Allison is trustworthy.

"Listen." Allison's voice is very soft and soothing. "We've known Scott forever, right? We can trust him, yeah? You trust Scott, don't you?"

"I guess so," she mumbles, the bow on Allison's dress tickling her cheek.

"Scott and Stiles have been best friends since they were little. Like you and me." Allison's hands trail up and down her back. "So if we trust Scott I think we can try to trust Stiles too, right?"

"Allison." Her head is suddenly so heavy, it takes all her effort to lift it so she can look at Allison.

"What?" Allison's big brown eyes are soft with worry, just like Stiles. "Lydia, what's wrong?"

The words wither and die on her tongue or maybe she's just a coward, because Lydia suddenly finds her mouth slamming shut so hard she almost bites her tongue, leaning forward to bury her face in Allison's hair, her lips pressed together so she doesn't say it.

_I'm afraid_.


	6. everything is under control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grab your water bottle and your ballet slippers, it's officially evaluation week!

Her phone is what wakes Lydia up in the morning, the repetitive trilling ringtone dragging her from unconsciousness. The night before comes back to her in choppy flashbacks - drinking at the party, Stiles, Allison. Going home in Stiles' Jeep, his arm around her waist as he'd walked her to the front door like some boy out of the 1950's.

She reaches blindly for her chiming phone and answers without looking at the screen. "Hello?"

"Get dressed, we're going out for breakfast, I'm picking you up in twenty minutes."

Lydia stretches, rubbing her eyes and pushing her tangled curls out of her face. "Stiles?"

"Breakfast," he repeats. "I'm picking up Scott and Allison and then we're coming to get you."

"Okay," she says, because she's half asleep and has no defenses.

"Twenty minutes," he says again, and hangs up.

Lydia stares down at herself. She apparently slept in the strapless bra and thong she wore under her dress last night, she forgot to braid her hair and it feels tangled when she runs her fingers through it. Did she even take her makeup off before falling asleep? She can't remember.

 _Shit_.

Lydia hauls her ass out of bed and walks to the bathroom in her underwear. She doesn't have time to wash and blow dry her hair so she sprays dry shampoo at the roots, attacks the knots with her brush and ties it all up in a messy bun before scrubbing her face with an exfoliant, brushing her teeth and taking a quick shower. She shuffles back to her bedroom wrapped in a towel, glancing at the clock. Twelve minutes to make herself look like she isn't hungover and disgusting.

She's too tired to make herself dress up, her head aches a little and her calves feel tight from being in heels all night, the impulse reinforced when she checks the weather and sees that it's barely in the high forties outside. She pulls on her black Adidas tights and a pale pink camisole, layering a cropped ivory colored [sweater](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529174731871) over it. She sits down at her vanity and applies tinted moisturizer, a generous amount of concealer, mascara. She touches up her eyebrows with a pencil and slicks on coral colored lip gloss before grabbing her black bomber jacket and her phone and running downstairs.

She finds her cross-body bag on the side table in the foyer where she must have left it last night and sits down on the bottom stair step to pull on her Nikes. "Mom!" Lydia shouts. "I'm going out to breakfast with Allison!"

Her mother ambles in a minute later while Lydia's waiting by the front door, peeking out the window for the blue flash of Stiles' Jeep.

"Hey baby, when did you get in last night? I didn't even hear you." Her mother kisses the top of her head, her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee.

"Not that late," she answers vaguely.

"Did you have a good time?"

"Hmm?"

Her mother's forehead furrows a little. "With Allison."

"Oh, yeah, it was fine. You know, just girl talk," Lydia lies.

"Uh-huh." Her mother raises a doubtful eyebrow at her.

Lydia sighs, pressing her cheek against the door, listening for the rumbling engine of the Jeep. "What?"

"Since when do you eat something like ice cream right before a big audition?" her mother inquires, her tone carefully neutral. "You're usually so focused."

Lydia stiffens, her fingers tightening around her phone. "They had low fat yogurt."

"Sweetheart, if you want to eat ice cream, eat ice cream," her mom says lightly. "I'm just a little surprised. That's not like you."

"I'm going to wait outside for Allison," Lydia announces, ignoring the hurt look on her mother's face at her abruptness, and slams the front door behind herself as she walks out onto the front porch.

She sinks down on the top step and folds over, resting her head on her knees. _You're usually so focused._

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. 

She didn't have ice cream last night but she did have a good amount of alcohol. It's not like she never drinks, there's a bit of an underground black market at school for that kind of thing. But she doesn't usually get drunk, doesn't dare let herself lose even a modicum of control. Her mother is right, she is usually more focused, she's not usually like this.

What the hell is wrong with her?

By the time the Jeep turns down her street she's halfway to berating herself into a black hole of self-hatred. She drags herself off the porch and stumbles to the car, half-wishing she hadn't picked up the phone. Stiles pulls the Jeep into her driveway and the passenger door swings open for her, Stiles leaning back across the console wearing a red hoody, his hair disheveled in a way that's sort of incredibly sexy without trying, making Lydia infuriated. How is she supposed to focus when there's this guy with sinewy forearms and golden brown eyes who looks at her like she's already a star, a prima, and not just another ballet dancer with legs that are a little too short?

"Hey," Lydia mumbles, climbing into the car and shutting the door.

"Morning!" Allison says cheerfully from the backseat where she's cuddled up with Scott, wearing a pair of his [sweatpants](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529175100749) and his maroon Beacon Hills LAX sweatshirt.

Lydia yawns behind one hand as she puts on her seatbelt. "Tell me you didn't lose Isaac and Malia."

Allison laughs as Stiles backs the car down the driveway and turns onto the street. "They're sleeping at Derek's loft, Isaac has a key."

"How the fuck does Isaac have a key to Derek Hale's loft?" Lydia mutters, baffled.

"Oh, he's - he's Isaac's guardian," Allison says softly. "Isaac doesn't really like to talk about it."

Lydia turns around in her seat to gape at Allison. "Are you serious? If I was him I'd be bragging my ass off, how'd he manage to keep everyone in school from finding out?"

Next to Allison Scott twitches. "I think the situation is a little complicated."

Lydia narrows her eyes at him as Stiles slows down for a red light. "How would you know anything about it?"

"Didn't you hear?" Stiles says dryly. "Scott and Isaac are like, best bros."

"Stiles," Scott groans quietly.

There's a wicked little gleam in Stiles' eyes. "They have gym dates. _So_ adorable, right?"

"HSB let me use their gym for free!" Scott protests. 

"We have a gym at school!" Stiles retorts.

"But ours is a _really_ nice gym," Allison adds, coming to Scott's defense. "I mean, no offense Stiles. But..."

"It's true," Lydia confirms. Donors (and parents, like the Whittemores) pour money into the school, it has state of the art facilities.

"I'll believe it when I see it." Stiles waves a hand at her, stepping on the gas as the light turns green. "Traitors, all of you."

He drives to the cafe where she ran into him last weekend and Lydia relaxes a little, she eats here with her mother all the time and has the entire menu memorized. Stiles parallel parks and they all pile out of the car and walk down the sidewalk towards the cafe. Allison pulls back from Scott to walk with Lydia, Stiles apparently taking the hint and jogging to catch up with Scott.

"Are you okay?" Allison whispers, slinging one arm around Lydia's waist. Allison's face is scrubbed clean of makeup and her hair's pulled back in a messy ponytail, the jeweled ballet flats she wore last night peeking out under the hem of Scott's sweatpants. "Last night got a little crazy."

"I'm fine," Lydia says crisply, walking through the glass door of the cafe when Scott holds it open for them.

"Okay," Allison says, but she doesn't sound convinced.

They all walk to a booth by the back windows. Scott slides into one side and Allison scoots in next to him, snuggling under his arm and tilting her face up to kiss his cheek. Lydia climbs into the booth opposite Scott and Stiles sinks down next to her, holding one long arm up to flag down a waitress. Stiles and Lydia both offer coffee with a mutual desperation that makes Scott and Allison laugh. Allison gets a glass of orange juice and Lydia stares at it as she stirs a packet of stevia into her coffee, imagining the bright citrus taste on her tongue, swallowing back a sickening flood of saliva.

Allison raises her eyebrow at her and holds out her glass. "You want a little?"

Lydia pours a dribble of half-and-half into her mug and slides the little metal canister over to Stiles. "No thanks."

"It's just juice," Allison says, narrowing her eyes a little bit, her glass still held out. "Have a sip."

Lydia glares at her but accepts the glass like a dare, parts her lips and allows the tiniest amount of liquid to slide down her throat before handing it back to Allison and taking a gulp of water to wash the tantalizing taste out of her mouth before she can crave more.

She sips her coffee, leaning back to rest her head against the dark green padded booth. She zones out a little, half-listening to Scott tell a story about the party last night, something about a game of beer pong getting out of control and resulting in a broken vase. When the waitress comes back Scott and Stiles both order pancakes. Allison requests steel cut oatmeal with fresh berries and Lydia doesn't even have to glance at the menu when it's her turn; she orders an egg white only garden omelet, subbing a fruit cup for the standard English muffin that comes with it.

When her mug gets low Stiles refills it for her with the carafe sitting near his elbow at the edge of the table without her having to ask. Lydia shoots him a grateful smile, reaching down to unzip her jacket. She's starting to warm up, heat sinking into the palms of her hands as she cradles her coffee. Now that the caffeine is kicking in some of her earlier panic begins to recede. It was only one night, she didn't do any lasting damage. She can pull herself together before things get out of control, she still has three more days before evaluations. 

As long as she doesn't do anything really stupid before then, like eat a ton of sugar or let Stiles' stupidly elegant hands and pretty eyes distract her, she'll be fine. She's fine.

She's Lydia Martin, one of the best dancers at one of best ballet schools in the country. She's been training for this since she was ten, she knows what she's doing.

Everything is under control.

*

Lydia throws herself back into her routine when she gets to school on Monday. She wakes up at seven on the dot, warms up in the gym, works her ass off in technique with Marin. She eats lunch with Allison two days in a row, forcing down salads heaped with cubes of grilled chicken, hard boiled egg whites and edamame because _protein is essential_ and Allison has seemingly taken a new interest in watching Lydia eat while she devours her own lunch.

To Lydia's relief she and Aiden work well together during partnering on Tuesday, both of them over their little spat the other week about her ribs. They're lucky that they have natural chemistry but they're playing catch up when it comes to trust, still learning all of each other's little quirks. It takes time to get those kinds of things but time is running out - they've only been dancing together since September, other pairings in their level have years on them. She thinks they can pull it off though, they're similar in certain ways - they're both determined, confident in their potential.

Aiden and Ethan studied at Alpha Ballet Academy under Deucalion when they was younger, before they transferred to HSB, and it shows. Aiden is precise and strong when he's working with her, he never wavers. Lydia's heard rumors about the Alpha training style - that it's incredibly rigid and intense, even more so than the Hales. Aiden's a little cocky about his pedigree, something everyone else in their level has begrudgingly accepted because Aiden is the real deal, he's earned their respect. 

Aiden's not as easygoing and likable as Ethan but he's talented and he's a solid partner, he always puts Lydia first and makes her look good. They work well together, they're both professionals burning with ambition. She can't help but be grateful, after what happened last spring partnering with anyone could've been a disaster but she and Aiden are a good fit.

Lydia eats dinner that night with the rest of the girls in her level in the cafeteria, sitting at the far end of the table with Allison, the other girls building a wall between her and Jackson so Lydia can't see him. It's one of those things that everyone in school knows about - the former golden couple, two of best dancers at the school, the ones who let their relationship interfere with their dancing, almost ruining both of their careers before they even began.

When she's finished Lydia goes down to the gym in the basement and works for almost two hours. She does core work on the mat for thirty minutes, followed by Pilates leg lifts and a series of bridges. She does a cool down on the treadmill before getting back down on the mat to stretch, paying extra attention to her hips and hamstrings. She finishes by extending her legs out in front of her and wrapping her Theraband around her toes to do point exercises, strengthening her arches and her ankles and increasing flexibility. When Lydia's done she walks over to the floor length mirror, staring at herself: slim, muscled legs in high waisted cream and black color-blocked leggings, a flat stomach, her chest covered by a black bralette and matching crop [top](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529175985628).

Lydia smiles a little, reaching up to straighten her ponytail before taking out her phone. She opens the camera app and tilts her head to show off her long neck, lips coming into a natural pout as she takes a selfie, the gym visible in the reflection of the mirror. She smirks to herself and attaches the picture in her text thread with Stiles and sends it simply with the caption, _believe it_.

Lydia collects her things, peels off her Toesox and puts her Nikes back on, slinging her dance bag over her shoulder as she leaves the gym. Her phone buzzes in the mesh side pocket of her leggings. She pulls it out, leaning against the wall in the basement hallway across from one of the practice studios. It's a reply from Stiles, a selfie of him lying down on what she assumes is his bed. He's grinning softly, the light catching his eyes. He's wearing a grey v-neck, one arm stretched over his head, the curve of his bicep visible in the corner of the picture. She can see the edge of a comic book next to his arm and a packet of twizzlers.

Her phones buzzes again with a follow up response and Lydia smiles to herself when she reads the words: _break a leg tomorrow_.

*

On Wednesday morning Lydia gets up extra early while Allison is still curled up asleep under the covers. Lydia changes into her leotard in the bathroom, pulls on a pair of forest green [leggings](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529176058796) and her grey Athleta thermal, pins her hair up in a perfect bun, and does a little more makeup than usual - tinted moisturizer, concealer, blush, mascara, matte lipstick a shade darker than her natural lip color. She puts on her Nikes, scoops up her bag and goes down to the gym to warm up. It's fuller than usual this morning, she has to impatiently wait ten full minutes for Hayden Romero to finish before she can get on the treadmill to walk.

When she's finished Lydia goes up to the cafeteria for breakfast. She can't fuck around today and she knows it; she gets a skim milk cappuccino, a container of low fat Greek yogurt and a banana that's just the right ripeness. She walks over to where Kira, Malia and Cora are sitting at a table and grabs an empty chair, slinging her dance bag over the back of it and sitting down.

"Hey," Cora says casually, and takes a delicate bite of her English muffin with peanut butter spread over it.

"Hey L'ia," Malia mumbles through a mouthful of oatmeal.

Lydia peels off the foil top of her yogurt. "Hey."

Kira sighs, clutching a mug of tea. "I don't know how you guys are eating, I'm so nervous."

Cora shrug and takes a sip of ice water. "It's just class."

"Not for us," Lydia says quietly, dipping her spoon into her yogurt.

"Oh come on," Malia says. "Like _you_ have a reason to be worried."

Lydia glances automatically across the cafeteria where Jackson is sitting at a table with Danny and Ethan. "And you do?"

Malia slumps over her oatmeal. "Marin hates me."

"She doesn't hate you," Kira says quickly. 

"My pirouettes suck," Malia says mournfully. "She never lets me forget it."

"You're letting your center go," Lydia says absentmindedly, and takes a bite of yogurt. "It's just a bad habit, you can fix it."

"And your jumps are amazing," Kira says warmly. "You get higher than all of us."

"And you only fell out of the pirouettes once last week," Cora points out. "Besides, it's not like Marin's the only one staging pieces for the showcase."

Allison comes over to their table a few minutes later wearing Scott's lacrosse sweatshirt over her leotard and tights, her hair twisted into a low bun. She's uncharacteristically quiet, sinking into a chair next to Lydia and placing a plastic cup of orange juice on the table next her bowl of cereal topped with sliced strawberries. Erica, Boyd and Isaac are all sitting together at the table next to theirs sharing a plate of pancakes; they've been a tight little trio since Isaac joined them in level four. Jackson used to call them the three misfits.

The entire cafeteria is thick with tension, it's almost like Kira's nerves are contagious. Lydia makes it halfway through her yogurt before giving up and switching to her banana. She takes a few deep breaths, smiling at Aiden from across the cafeteria when he waves at her from where he's standing in line to swipe his ID.

The girls all finish eating around the same time and go up to the third floor together. Usually they have technique in Studio B but today they're in Studio D, where they have partnering. Cora opens the door and they all file in behind her, Lydia can hear the ding of the elevator and when she turns around she sees Erica, Isaac and Boyd coming out. Lydia walks into the studio with Allison, scanning the room nervously. Two long moveable barres have been placed in the center for the morning's class; Marin and Derek are already here, standing in the far corner over by the piano. Derek's dressed in a pair of black sweatpants and a white tee shirt, Marin's wearing a black long sleeved leotard and a lavender wrap skirt, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail.

Lydia walks over to the wall with Allison and drops down on the floor to take off her Nikes. She peels off her leggings and rolls on her tights before pulling on her canvas ballet slippers. She stretches her legs out in front of her and starts warming up her feet, slowly pointing and flexing her toes. Erica, Isaac and Boyd walk in, crossing in front of her to drop their bags in the corner, taking their sweats off and putting their shoes on.

The rest of the boys come in a few minutes later dressed in their level eight mens uniform of black tights and white tee shirts. Lydia glances up, watching Jackson strut by with Danny, Ethan and Aiden behind him. The boys all dump their stuff against the far wall and go through the same routine as the rest of them - stripping off their street shoes and sweatpants, putting on their ballet slippers, warming up their feet before getting up and moving over to the barres.

"Come on," Lydia says quickly, reaching for Allison, who hops up and follows her over to the center before all the good spots near the front are gone.

Allison takes an open space behind Isaac, who's somehow managed to snag the spot just behind Aiden at the front of the barre, and Lydia quickly claims the spot behind her. Jackson's on the barre to their right, warming up next to Danny and Ethan. Lydia swallows and turns her back on him to face the barre, shooting a sideways glance at Malia when she fills in the spot to Lydia's left, Kira sliding in behind her to take the last spot on their barre. Lydia lays both hands lightly on the barre to do relevés, rising up and down on demi pointe, warming up her feet and calves while Allison throws her right leg up on the barre and leans over it to stretch. 

The studio door opens and all the students fall silent as the teaching staff files into the studio: Jennifer, Coach Finstock, Madame Finch and Mr. Harris. They all walk over to greet Marin and Derek before sitting down in the folding chairs lined up in front of the mirror. A minute later the door swings open again and Peter Hale walks into the studio. He's dressed in street clothes - jeans, a burgundy v-neck tee shirt under a leather jacket, expensive looking boots. He holds his hand up in Derek's direction before sitting down in the last empty chair, glancing sideways to nod at the teachers.

Marin and Derek glance at each other before he tilts his head at her in a deferential kind of way. She smiles a little smugly before moving over to the center and standing in between the two barres. "Good morning, everyone. We'll begin with pliés. Demi, demi, grand, in first, second, fourth, and fifth. Cambre front and back, soutenu, repeat on the other side."

The pianist gives them eight counts to prepare, everyone lays their left hand on the barre facing Marin and gets into first position - turned out from the hips, knees directly over their toes, heels pressed together. Lydia drops her right hand down, arm curved, fluttering her right hand a little in a stylized preparation before dropping it down in front of her pelvis, and then they begin.

Cora was right, a little bit - it does feel like just another class, lined up at the barre doing pliés for the millionth time under Marin's watchful gaze. Cora's in the front spot on the other barre, in front of Danny, calm and collected as usual. Lydia watches her out of the corner of her eye as she sinks into her first plié before snapping back into focus. She stares at the long line of Allison's back in her black leotard as she bends her knees, following along to the count of the piano as she moves.

She moves through the plié sequence, her body perfectly in tune to the music. After the cambres Lydia rises up on demi pointe and turns around, landing in first position facing Malia's back, her right hand moving to the barre to repeat the pliés before executing a soutenu to get back to the other side to begin tendus. They start them slow; Lydia points her right toe and slowly draws her leg out in front of her in a straight line, pushing lightly against the floor with her toes, all the little muscles in her foot and ankle engaged. They do them on both sides and then again a little faster before moving on to dégagés, brushing the feet of their working legs off the floor.

Lydia loses herself in the familiar rhythm, paying careful attention to Marin as she gives them a développé sequence, lifting her leg with a bent knee before extending it out straight because développé means 'to develop', they're a basic movement but important to practice because they're used quite a bit in pas de deuxs. After développés they move on to battement en croix, lifting their legs straight up to the front, then side, then back, then to the side again.

They do a few more barre excercises, rond de jambe a terre, drawing circles with their working legs on the floor, keeping their standing legs solid and straight, not letting the swing of their working legs take their hips out of alignment. They continue on to frappés now that their muscles are getting warm. Lydia flexes the foot of her working leg against the ankle of her standing leg before extending her working leg and pointing her foot out and towards the floor in a quick movement, causing her toes to strike the floor in a sharp beat along with the music.

Marin leads them through a barre stretch next, leaning towards the barre and away to stretch their sides, and then one leg up on the barre at a time to stretch their hamstrings and their backs as they fall over their extended legs, pressing their noses to their knees. When the stretching exercise is over Marin claps her hands and they all step away from the barres, facing Marin and waiting for instructions.

"Girls, put on your shoes please, boys, if you wouldn't mind moving the barres."

Lydia walks back over to her bag along with the rest of the girls while the guys pick up the barres and carry them over to the back of the studio. Lydia gets down on the floor, takes her ballet slippers off and reaches up to pull off her thermal, leaving her in her black leotard. She unzips her bag and take out her toe pads, athletic tape, and pointe shoes. She quickly tapes a few toes that have varying stages of blisters developing before putting on her toe pads and sliding her feet into her pointe shoes. She wraps her ribbons around her ankles in opposing directions before tying them into knots and tucking them under the ribbon on the inside of each ankle. She takes a quick sip from her water bottle before standing up, rising up en pointé and doing a few relevés before walking back over to the center.

"Okay, partner up," Marin calls out as Derek walks over to join her in the center.

Lydia turns back and holds her hand out to Aiden, who quickly comes up to stand behind her, squeezing her hand before settling his palms warmly over her bare shoulders. "You ready to kick some ass?" he whispers.

Lydia smirks at him in the mirror, watching everyone partner up next to them, Danny and Cora to their right and Isaac and Allison to their left, everyone filling in the spots around them, six girls and six boys lining up like a sacrifice, willing to bend and break themselves to their teachers' will.

"We though we'd have a little fun today and do a pas de deux for our adagio. Marin and I will demonstrate and then we'll give you, let's say, ten minutes to mark it?" Derek glances at them all as if to make sure they're all on board, like any of them would dare argue with watching Derek Hale, the former principal dancer of HBC, dance right in front of them.

Everyone nods, a hush falling over the studio as they all watch with wide eyes as Marin steps in front of Derek and turns to the side, feet in fifth position. "We'll begin with an assisted arabesque," Marin says, and lifts her right leg up behind herself.

Lydia turns to the side, mirroring Marin as she lifts her leg up behind her and rises up on demi pointe. Derek slides one hand against Marin's ribcage and reaches for her working leg with the other, wrapping his right hand around her calve and lifting her leg higher up as Marin arches back until her legs are split in a perfect 180 degree extension, her head thrown back. Lydia holds her breath as Marin and Derek hold the position for almost a full eight count before he releases her leg, his left hand still splayed over her ribs.

"Pay attention," Derek calls out, as if any of them aren't completely riveted. "Small lift here."

Marin lowers her right leg to ninety degrees and kicks her left leg back into the air to meet it; Derek quickly catches her legs by curling his arm over her thighs as Marin wraps her legs back around Derek's waist, her torso anchored to his chest by his hand on her ribs. It's a beautiful posture, Marin curled around Derek's body, her head resting against his chest like a lover and her feet pointed behind his back. Lydia holds her breath, praying they don't go into a fish dive. 

To her relief Derek turns in a slow circle with Marin curled around him before releasing Marin's legs and helping her upright so she's standing in fifth position next to him. They take hands and do a repeating tombé pas de bourré across the floor for two eight counts, every little step effortless.

Lydia watches as Marin closes her feet into fifth position and lifts her right leg back in an attitude, knees bent, toes pointed. Derek holds his hand out and Marin gives him her fingers as he guides her into a promenade, a slow revolving turn. When they come out of the promenade Marin moves her working leg through passé before doing a développé to the side and leans away from her extended leg into Derek, who wraps his arm around her waist and lunges to the left, pulling her against his right side so she comes off the floor, her left leg pointed down and her right out to the side, just for a moment to showcase Derek's strength, before he stands back upright and drops Marin lightly down right in front of them. She falls into a deep curtsy, her hand held in Derek's, signifying the end of the pas de deux, 

"Alright then," Derek says. "Ten minutes."

They all scatter across the studio, spreading out in pairs to work on the pas de deux. Aiden gets into position behind Lydia, his left hand spreading over her leotard just under her breasts. "Are you going to be okay?" he asks quietly, stroking her ribs with his fingers.

She nods, lifting her right leg in a low arabesque. "Just don't crank it."

"You got it," Aiden says, and waits patiently for her to rise up en pointe.

Lydia slowly raises her leg up into a full arabesque but not quite as high as she knows she's capable of. Marking is simply about getting the choreography down, she doesn't like to waste her energy by marking full out. She starts to arch back when she feels Aiden's hand grab her leg, his fingers tapping out the eight count against her ribs before releasing her leg. She lowers it to ninety degrees, bends her standing leg just a little to warn him before kicking back into the air, his hand on her ribs the only thing keeping her from falling right down to the floor. Aiden catches her legs easily, helping her guide them back around his waist, her heels pressing into his back as she points her toes.

He does the turn, holding her tightly against him before releasing her legs and setting her carefully down on the floor. "Okay?" he asks. 

Lydia nods and takes his hand for the pas de bourrés. When they finish she lifts her right leg back into attitude and holds her hand out to him, letting him slowly turn her in place. When she comes out of it Aiden steps to her left as Lydia développés her right leg out to the side. His arm comes around her waist and Lydia falls slowly to her left against Aiden's side as he lunges and lifts her briefly off the floor, her right leg pointed up at the ceiling. He stands back upright and Lydia lowers her right leg as he sets her down on the floor. They join hands and mark the reverence before starting over again from the beginning.

Ten minutes flies by, Marin claps her hands and Lydia comes down off of relevé, leaning against Aiden, his body a small comfort. "Alright, we'll do three pairs at a time, twice through." Marin announces. "We'll begin with Cora and Danny, Ethan and Malia, and Jackson and Kira."

Lydia steps back with Aiden along with Isaac, Allison, Erica and Boyd. Lydia pulls Aiden over to the corner so they can continue to mark while the first group performs, going through the combination twice while the dancers in the back mark along, and then it's their turn.

Lydia and Aiden walk to the center spot, Allison and Isaac to their left and Boyd and Erica to their right. They get into position, Lydia standing in front of Aiden and turning slightly to face the left corner, feet in fifth position, effacé (the opposite of croisé, her legs appearing open from the front instead of crossed). They're given eight counts to prepare and then they begin. Lydia lifts her right leg into arabesque and rises up en pointe, pulling in her stomach and keeping her shoulders back as Aiden's hand spreads over her ribcage. His other hand comes to her extended back leg and Lydia exhales, tipping her head back, arms stretched over her head in high fifth as Aiden gently pushes her leg up towards her head. They hold it for an eight count, her legs in a full split, back arched, Aiden's fingers digging gently into the space between her ribs, giving her just a little pressure from his fingertips so the cartilage doesn't start spasming. 

He releases her leg and Lydia straightens her back as she lowers her leg to ninety degrees. There's no time to hesitate, Lydia kicks back and Aiden catches her just like he's supposed to; she points her feet and wraps her legs back around his waist. She tilts her face up just a little and Aiden smiles down at her, showcasing their chemistry, their mutual trust, as Aiden slowly turns in a circle, holding her tightly against him. When he's facing the front of the studio again he releases her legs and swings her around to the front, Lydia pulls her legs into fifth position in relevé as he drops her gently to the floor, reaching down with her left hand to hold Aiden's.

They fall into the tombé in perfect sync, moving across the floor for the pas de bourrés. When she's finished Lydia lifts her right leg back in attitude for the promenade, keeping her eyes on Aiden as he turns her in a circle. She does the développé and leans to the left, letting Aiden pull her against his side as he lunges to the left, her standing leg coming off the floor for a few seconds until he straightens up and sets her down. Lydia lowers her right leg and falls into a deep curtsy. 

"Once more," Marin calls out.

Lydia glances sideways at Aiden and gets back into position as the music starts up again. They repeat the pas de deux from the top, flawlessly transitioning from the arabesque to the lift. Lydia lets go a little more this time, arching against Aiden to get more curve in her back, tipping her chin to show off the length of her neck as he turns. They both smile through the pas de bourrés, flirting with an imaginary audience before doing the promenade, Lydia lifting from her hip to keep her bent knee above ninety degrees. She watches herself in the mirror as she executes the développé and lets herself fall slightly off her pointe as she leans into Aiden so it looks more dramatic, a second where she's balanced on nothing before he lifts her up against his side for his lunge, coming back down and performing a grand reverence to their teachers.

Marin calls everyone back to the center and they move onto changements in first, second, and fifth, alternating feet, before being sent to the back corner to do sissonnes across the floor. The girls go first, Lydia starts with her feet in fifth position before jumping into the air and splitting her legs apart, like scissor blades, before landing back on two feet in fifth again. She does sissonnes all the way across the floor, filing back around the studio with the rest of the girls as the boys go after them. Next they do a simple glissade jeté combination, a chaîné turn with a fan kick tacked on at the end. Everyone is on their game today, Lydia doesn't catch a single mistake as she watches Malia and Cora leap across the floor after her.

Class is almost over, Lydia leaps across the floor for piqué jumps in a line with the rest of the girls, throwing her body into the air and pointing her toes for dear life, watching Allison in front of her travel across the floor like a gazelle. They go back across the floor for pirouettes in diagonal lines, single, single, double, triple. Lydia lands her turns clean along with everyone else, Malia must have taken her advice to heart because she doesn't fall out of the pirouettes once, completing a clean triple every time.

"Well then," Marin begins to say, when Peter suddenly gets up from his chair and walks over to her. He bends down and whispers something in her ear, Marin nods sharply and he lays a hand on her shoulder briefly before returning back to his chair.

"One more thing," Marin says. "From the corner please. We'd like to see you walk. One at a time, s'il vous plait."

They all stare at each other at the unusual request before running back over to the corner and getting into a single line. They all walk across the floor on a diagonal one at a time. When it's Lydia's turn she moves deliberately, perfectly along to the music, head held high and arms still at her sides without being stiff. When everyone has made it to the other end of the studio the music stops and Marin claps her hands.

"Thank you very much," she says, gesturing to her fellow teachers. "Ladies, I'll see you back here after lunch for variations."

The teachers are the first to leave, Lydia watches them exit the studio with her heart in her throat. Everyone wanders back over to their stuff to take off their shoes and change. Lydia walks slowly across the floor with Allison, breathing deeply as her heart rate starts to go down, relief washing over her in a warm wave.

It's over, she made it through evaluations. She danced as well as she possibly could and now the rest is out of her hands.

*

[Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529176240882) comes into their room that night while [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529176154476) is stretching on the floor, a wicked little smile on her face. "Come on, party in Malia and Kira's room. Malia's got a fifth of Bacardi."

Lydia stands up and bends over to roll up her yoga mat. "Where'd she get a bottle of rum?"

Allison laughs. "Pretty sure she swiped it from Derek's, I guess he's got a huge bar at the loft."

"Typical," Lydia says, and sticks her feet into her flats, grabs her phone, and flicks off the light.

Malia and Kira's room is just down the hallway, [Kira's](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529176307669) waiting with the door cracked, opening it all the way to let them in before shutting it behind them and flipping the lock. [Malia's](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529176377715) standing over by their mini fridge, pouring Sprite into plastic cups. "I have rum!" Malia announces proudly. 

"Where's Erica and Cora?" Allison asks, pulling Lydia along next to her and flopping down on the floor against Kira's bed.

"Jungle with Danny, Ethan and Boyd," Kira explains, grabbing the fifth of Bacardi and one of the cups of Sprite, coming over and sinking down opposite them. "They're celebrating."

"But spring break doesn't start until tomorrow," Lydia points out. 

"If you can call it that, they're barely giving us half a week," Malia complains.

"We only have technique in the morning and then we're done though," Allison says, reaching up to take two cups of Sprite from Malia and passing one to Lydia.

Kira cracks open the rum and pours some into her Sprite before handing it to Lydia. She carefully eyeballs a shot before passing the Bacardi to Allison, swirling her cup around before taking a sip. She can relax a little now that evaluations are over but she's still got to dance in the morning.

When Malia has her drink mixed she sits down next to Kira and holds her cup out. "To surviving evaluations."

The rest of them hold their cups out to hers. "To not falling and making an idiot out of myself," Kira says.

"To getting kick-ass parts," Allison adds.

"And to long careers with any company we desire," Lydia finishes, and they all take a sip. "Hey," she says, poking Malia's leg with her toes. "You nailed those pirouettes today."

Malia's face lights up the compliment. "You think? I'm still not as good as you guys."

"You haven't been taking class here since level one," Allison points out gently.

"Kira hasn't either," Malia argues.

"Malia, I studied at ABA," Kira reminds her. "If my dad hadn't gotten that teaching job I'd still be in New York. Don't be so hard on yourself."

"Did you ever take classes at a proper school before you came here?" Lydia inquires, because she's always wanted to know and it feels like a safe space here, the four of them huddled together between the beds on the floor behind a locked door.

Malia shrugs, staring distantly over Lydia's head. "I took classes at that little studio on Elm, you know, over by the cafe, before the accident. After that I stopped because...." Malia trails off, the light going out of her eyes. "I had a foster mother when I was twelve that agreed to classes once a week. I couldn't be in the shows because the costumes and stuff were too expensive but it was good you know, that she even let me take class. And then, um..." Malia clutches her drink, bringing it up to her lips for a sip when the liquid begins to splash over the rim. "Derek found me and you guys know the rest."

The three other girls exchange quick, worried glances. Malia almost never talks about the accident that killed her adoptive mother and sister. Lydia's heard the story from Cora: Malia was eight when it happened, her dad was such a wreck after that he couldn't take care of her and she was kicked into foster care until Derek brought her to HSB. Lydia has no idea how he found her or even knew to look, it's one of those mysteries no one really knows the answer to. 

Allison and Lydia stay long enough to finish their drinks before going back to their room. They take turns using the bathroom and brushing their teeth, set their alarms for the morning and get into bed, Lydia reaching out to turn off her lamp, bathing the small room in darkness. She curls over on her side, warm and sleepy, about to drift off when she hears Allison roll over.

"Hey," Allison whispers. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Do you ever think about what you'd do if you were normal?"

"Normal?"

"You know." Allison sighs. "Like a regular teenager."

"Maybe," Lydia confesses. "I'd go to MIT, I guess. Win a Field's Medal."

"What's a Field's Medal?" Allison murmurs, sounding sleepy.

"It's kind of like a Nobel Prize but for math."

"You still could," Allison says softly.

"What about you?" Lydia deflects.

"I don't know. Sometimes I think it might be nice to try something just for fun, you know? Not commit to doing this thing just because it's what I'm supposed to do."

"Like what?" Lydia asks, a little baffled. 

"I don't know," Allison muses. "I always thought archery looked fun. Or - I don't know, I have a boyfriend and I almost never get to see him because I'm always in class or conditioning or rehearsal. It might be nice to just... be, you know? There's so much we've given up to be here."

"But it's worth it," Lydia says. She feels strange, she's never heard Allison talk like this before.

"No, I know," Allison says quickly. "But for real, if you were just like, a normal teenager and it was your spring break senior year, what would you do?"

"Have a real birthday party," Lydia answers easily.

"A _real_ party?"

"Yeah, like with balloons and a million friends and boys and shit. Get drunk because I wouldn't have to dance for four hours the next day. Eat two slices of birthday cake."

"You can still have birthday cake."

"You know what I mean."

Allison's quiet for a minute, and just when Lydia thinks she's fallen asleep Allison whispers, "Is it happening again?"

Lydia glances sideways but she can hardly make out Allison's face in the dark. "I don't know," she confesses.

"Last summer was really bad," Allison says in a careful tone.

"I know," Lydia shoots back.

Allison sighs. "Look, just - you'd tell me if it started getting bad again, right?"

"I was just stressed about evaluations, you know how I get," Lydia murmurs. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. I've got it under control."

"Lydia"-

"Hey, I thought of one more thing."

"Huh?" Allison says.

"A normal girl thing."

"Oh," Allison mumbles, half-asleep and distracted by Lydia's deflection. "What?"

"I'd ask you to tell Scott to tell Stiles to ask me out on a date."

"I still could," Allison says. "Just say the word."

Lydia yawns, her body heavy and warm. "Maybe after the showcase."

"Okay."

"We okay?"

"Yeah," Allison. "I just - I love you."

"I love you too," Lydia whispers. "Go to sleep, we've got a busy weekend."

Allison giggles quietly. "Yeah, we do. Goodnight Lydia."

"Goodnight." She lays in bed, listening to the soft sound of Allison's breathing level out, staring up at the dark ceiling for a long time, nerves thrumming with anticipation of the casting announcement that goes up tomorrow, before finally falling asleep.


	7. casting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, have a safe holiday everyone!

When [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529187576626) goes down to the gym in the morning before technique she's the only one there. Their break doesn't technically start until after lunch when the casting list for the showcase goes up, but with evaluations finally over Lydia isn't surprised other students are slacking this morning. She doesn't mind having the space to herself, she plugs her headphones into her phone and gets on the treadmill. She's too nervous to focus on math today so she starts an episode of This American Life and zones out to its soothing undertones as she walks, warming up her legs.

She goes up to the cafeteria at eight, gets a coffee with nonfat milk and a banana, and walks over to a small table in the far corner of the room. She sips her coffee, headphones still in, head tilted back, visualizing the pas de deux she danced with Aiden yesterday, going over every single step, second guessing everything she did. No one really knows what they're looking for during evaluations - teachers choose the pieces to their own discretion, sometimes they choreograph original pieces and sometimes they stage variations from famous ballets, or do a mixture of both.

The only thing she really knows at all is that Peter Hale is definitely choreographing something original. Whoever he casts will be receiving the opportunity of a lifetime. Lydia's dreamed of working with choreographers like him, people who create magic, who take mere ballerinas and transform them into primas, into stars. 

At eight forty-five Lydia goes up to Studio B for technique. Allison isn't here yet, Lydia walks over to the wall and sits down next to Kira, who flashes her a nervous smile. "Casting goes up around lunchtime, right?"

"Yeah," Lydia confirms, taking off her Nikes and peeling off her sweatpants.

She takes a sip from her water bottle and screws the top on tightly before taking out her slippers. She does her usual warm up stretches for her feet, repeatedly glancing at the door, wondering where the hell Allison is. Lydia's walking over to the barre with the rest of the girls when [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529187655963) finally runs into the studio, her bag slung over her elbow.

"You're late, Mademoiselle Argent," Marin calls out disapprovingly, crossing her arms over her chest in the center of the room.

"Sorry, sorry!" Allison shouts, dropping her dance bag on the floor next to Lydia's and kicking off her Adidas. Marin makes them all wait in silence as Allison yanks on her tights and slippers, reaches up and twists her hair into a messy bun. She walks quickly over to Marin and drops into a low curtsy. 

Marin sighs and waves a hand at Allison. "Very well, apology accepted."

Allison scurries over to the barre, taking her place in front of Lydia, who raises a shocked eyebrow; Allison's never been flat-out late to class before. "What's going on?" she whispers, placing her left hand lightly on the barre.

To her surprise Allison winks at her. "You'll see."

The music starts and Allison turns around before Lydia can ask her what the hell _that_ means.

There's nothing atypical about class today except for their performance. It's clear everyone is too distracted with casting to really focus, even Cora is dragging, cutting her usual triple pirouettes down to doubles when they do turns in the center. It's so bad Marin calls the end of class ten minutes early, giving them a longer break before coming back in for pointe. They all go out into the hallway, impatiently pacing back and forth - everyone except for Allison, who lies on her back while rapidly texting with her thumbs, ignoring the buzz of nerves all around her.

"Okay, seriously," Lydia eventually says, sitting down next to her to tape her toes. "What is going on with you?"

"Last minute things," Allison says vaguely.

"For what?" Lydia asks incredulously. They've had this weekend planned out for months, Lydia has every detail covered.

Allison smiles cheekily. "You'll see."

"Allison"-

"Trust me," Allison says. "I've got this."

"You've got _what?_ "

"We should go back in, pointe's starting." 

Lydia grabs her bag and follows Allison back into the studio. Allison is definitely up to something but Lydia's too distracted by the impending cast list to get worked up about it. Marin goes easy on them - they do changements in the center, pique turns across the floor, small jump combinations. When class is over they all rush over to their bags to take their shoes off and get their sweats on to go downstairs so they can rush the lobby the second the casting list goes up, their futures written out on a single piece of paper.

Lydia went to the showcase last year when she was a level seven, fantasizing that it was her up on stage dancing Odette or the Lilac Fairy. The casting was so carefully considered, each dancer chosen specifically for a role that would highlight their best attributes, the better to impress the representatives from other companies sitting in the front row, invited to see the Hale Ballet School's most talented students.

All the girls take the elevator down to the cafeteria for lunch, claiming a round table close to the doors that lead out to the lobby. Lydia picks at her salad, turning lettuce leaves over with her fork, her heart racing like she's on a train heading over a cliff. She takes a deep breath and shuts her eyes, envisioning her name next to an iconic role. Nikiya. Princess Aurora. Kitri.

"Lydia!" Her head snaps up, Aiden's standing in the doorway of the cafeteria, bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet. "It's up, come on!"

Lydia drops her fork into her salad and leaps out of her chair, leaves her bag on the floor and darts through the doors after him, the rest of the boys and girls in their level following her. Aiden grabs her hand and they run down the main hallway to the announcement board in the lobby, everyone else hot on their heels. They're the first ones there except for Ethan and Danny, who clearly skipped lunch so they could be there the second the list went up. Lydia rises up on her toes to see over Danny's shoulder and Aiden scoops her up easily with one arm and hikes her onto his left hip so she can see the casting list, her legs hooking around his waist as she loops her arms around his neck and begins to read:

The first two pieces are original choreography, Marin is doing a piece with all the girls and Finstock's doing one with all the boys. Lydia skims through it, just to confirm that everyone's in them, before moving on to the individual roles, listed name by name below.

Allison is at the top of the list next to Isaac; they're dancing a pas de deux from the balcony [scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zWBVa2m_4Fs) in Romeo and Juliet. Lydia melts against Aiden in relief, thrilled for her friends - it's an incredible honor for both of them, the pas de deux has lots of lifts and assisted turns that require an insane amount of trust and physical strength. Isaac and Allison are perfect for it, dancing Romeo and Juliet is a chance for them to showcase real connection and tenderness that few pairs in their level could execute the way they can.

Allison and Isaac have a genuine connection that can't be faked, deeper than just physical chemistry, ever since they were paired together. They dance like they're in love, they'll look gorgeous onstage together.

Lydia moves on to the next name: Erica's dancing Kitri's Act I [variation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SOvXo841L1o) from Don Quixote. It's the right choice for Erica; Kitri has to be danced with fire and passion or it just falls flat, personality as important as the technical ability. Kira is dancing the Bluebird and Princess Florine [variation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BZe0TFU75rI) from The Sleeping Beauty with Danny, while Jackson, Lydia notes with relief, is dancing Conrad's [variation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YZ0OfQvM2u0) from Le Corsaire, he isn't partnering anyone. Boyd's dancing Siegfried's [variation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_0TkocxQ3T4) from Swan Lake and Ethan has been given James' [variation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yMT9sRipOXw) from La Sylphide.

Cora is dancing Raymonda's Act II grand pas [variation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s6Ano2auiJk). Raymonda is a Russian ballet about a countess, it's a beautiful variation, technically extremely difficult. The pointe work alone is crazy, a series of enchrechats that land _en pointe_ , lots of turn combinations, but Cora's one of the rare dancers who has the talent to pull it off. Lydia smiles when she sees that Malia's been given Swanhilda's Act III [variation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3StcQpUfUnk) from Coppélia, the same ballet the company is closing out the season with. It's an athletic role, big jumps and développés, as long as Malia works on her control for the turn combination at the end she'll be wonderful in it.

And finally there it is, her name, _Lydia Martin_ , right next to Aiden's, dancing Little Red and the Wolf. At first Lydia's heart sinks - Little Red and the Wolf is from the last act of The Sleeping Beauty, it mostly consists of poor Red bourréing across the stage while the Wolf jumps around terrorizing her. But then Lydia sees the star underneath the title of the piece and she squeezes the back of Aiden's neck, her heart bursting in her chest.

_*A modern ballet, original choreography by Peter Hale_

They did it. He chose them. 

She's going to be dancing an original ballet choreographed by one of the most gifted choreographers alive. 

Aiden whoops, jumping up and down so Lydia bounces on his hip. She gasps, her eyes filling with tears as she stares at him, too overwhelmed to speak. His face splits into a grin and he spins her around in a circle, making her shriek, before he sets her down on her feet, his hands coming up to her face.

"You were amazing yesterday," he breathes. "I _knew_ you could do it."

Lydia gives him a wobbly smile through her tears, his thumbs rubbing under her eyes. Last spring she could hardly get out of bed, she couldn't take a breath without her lunges igniting. She couldn't do anything but lie on the couch in her mother's living room and cry, imaging her dream slipping right through her fingers the way she fell through Jackson's hands.

And now here she is, dancing in the showcase, dancing _Peter Hale's_ choreography.

"I'm gonna go eat lunch and brag my ass off." Aiden's eyes twinkle and he bends down to kiss her forehead before breaking apart from her. "I'm so fucking proud of you!" he shouts, and disappears into the crowd.

"Lydia!" Allison runs over to her, shrieking at the top of her lungs. " _Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod!_ "

They link hands and jump up and down; Isaac is standing behind Allison looking completely shocked, his blue eyes huge in his face. It's chaos, everyone around them is screaming and crying and laughing and everything, every bloody toe, every injury, every bad class and every tear shed was worth it, to be here right now, the beginning of stardom unrolling right in front of her like a red carpet.

At some point her mother comes out of the office and bursts into tears as soon as she sees the cast list, Lydia is embraced and fawned over while everyone slowly makes their way back to the cafeteria to finish eating and retrieve their things. Lydia and Allison go up to their dorm room together and drop their bags in the middle of the floor, both of them completely emotional and overwhelmed.

Allison stretches, reaching up and peeling her cropped sweatshirt over her head. "You want first shower?"

Lydia shrugs and kicks off her shoes. "Sure." She goes into the bathroom and peels off her leotard and tights, turns the fan on and steps into the shower. She washes slowly, daydreaming about the showcase, standing on stage next to Aiden in a tutu and pointe shoes, making the audience fall in love with her with every step she takes.

When she steps out of the shower she wraps herself in a towel and stands in front of the sink. She unpins her hair and shakes it out, sprays some dry shampoo at the roots and brushes it out so her hair falls in messy waves. She puts on real makeup now that she's done dancing; foundation, mascara, and lip gloss before packing up all her cosmetics bags and tucking them under her arm. When she comes out of the bathroom Allison's sitting on her bed in only her leotard, half covered in a huge pile of clothes. Lydia smirks, tossing her makeup bags and her hairbrush on top of her bed. 

"I don't know what to pack," Allison says sheepishly.

"It's just going to be us, I don't care what you wear."

Allison smiles and climbs off her bed. "I'm gonna go shower."

Lydia goes over to her closet and pulls out her weekender, tosses it onto her bed next to her cosmetic cases. She changes into a bra and thong, pulls on a pair of jeans and an embroidered tee [shirt](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529187724870) from Topshop. She opens up her top dresser drawer and scoops up a pile of legging. She'll be gone for three days so she needs at least four or five pairs if she keeps up her training schedule. She grabs a bunch of sports bras before sitting down on her bed, mixing and matching before folding her selections and placing them in her duffle.

She's going through her tops when Allison comes out of the shower. "I hope you're packing more than just athletic clothes," she says disapprovingly.

Lydia folds a pale pink cropped Adidas tee shirt and lays it on top of the leggings in her duffle. "Why would I?"

"Lydiaaaa," Allison groans, tossing a pair of jeans and a striped tee shirt onto her bed.

"What? Unless there's something I don't know about?"

"It's your birthday, come on, don't you want to dress up for your birthday?" Allison asks beseechingly. She pulls on a thong and tosses her towel over the back of her desk chair to hook her bra.

Lydia folds up another cropped tee shirt and tosses it into her bag. "Do you want to pack for me?"

A mischievous expression crosses over Allison's face. "Okay."

"I was joking," Lydia says dryly.

"No, come on." Allison crosses the room in her underwear to Lydia's closet. "Just pack a few cute tops at least." 

She bites her lip seriously before selecting two tops and handing them to Lydia, who rolls her eyes but packs them anyway. "Okay, are you happy now?"

"You need a birthday outfit," Allison declares. "Do you keep any of your nice dresses here?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Never mind, you can borrow something. Here, shoes." Allison pushes a pair of heels into Lydia's hands.

Lydia stares down at the shoes. "What the hell are you up to?"

Allison winks saucily at her. "I told you already. You'll see."

Lydia packs the heels, glancing suspiciously at Allison out of her corner of her eye but Allison just yanks on a pair of jeans and a striped tee [shirt](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529187784709) before evaluating the pile of clothes on her bed. Lydia turns back to her open weekender: she's got leggings, bras, a couple of workout shirts, the tops Allison picked out, and the heels. She adds a few sweatshirts, underwear, pajamas, socks, slippers, the Chloe flats, her Nikes, hair brush and curling iron, phone charger, cosmetics cases and her cross-body bag. She grabs her yoga mat from under her bed and stacks it against her duffle before making sure she has everything she needs in her dance bag, refills her water bottle, and gets her boots on.

Allison's zipping up her duffle, struggling a little before finally getting it shut. She puts her boots on and slides her arms through her leather jacket. "Room check?"

Lydia puts on her bomber jacket and they do a quick sweep around their dorm room and bathroom to make sure they remembered to pack things like their toothbrushes and makeup remover before turning off all the lights and the power strips. They both grab all their bags and walk out of the room, Lydia locks their door and they walk down the hallway and take the elevator down to the first floor.

Her mother's waiting for them in the office, pushing back her desk chair when Lydia opens the door, a proud smile on her face. "Well if it isn't the birthday girl."

"My birthday isn't until Saturday," Lydia murmurs, eyeing the small wrapped box on the corner of her mother's desk.

"I can't believe you're eighteen already." Her mother wraps her arms around her in a hug before reaching for the box and pressing it into Lydia's hands. "Save it for Saturday, okay?"

Lydia smiles and nods, fingering the small bow on the box before slipping it into a pocket of her weekender. Her mother walks back to her desk and pulls a key ring out of a drawer. "I expect you both to be responsible this weekend."

"We will." Lydia takes the keys to the lake house and zips them safely inside her cross-body bag.

"Allison, as the official adult for two more days, you're in charge," her mother says. "No drinking, no drugs, and no boys, got it?"

"Of course," Allison says, giving her mother a sweet smile. 

Her mother sighs and gives Lydia another hug. "I'm so proud of you, baby."

Lydia smiles and drops her cheek to her mother's shoulder. She's sacrificed so much to help Lydia fulfill her dream - moving them to Beacon Hills so she could go to school here full time, countless pairs of pointe shoes purchased, leotards, tights, commuting to the San Francisco office on the weekends. "Thanks Mom."

Her mother kisses her head, her eyes watery as she pulls away. "Have fun this weekend, okay? You've earned it."

"Okay." Lydia smiles and readjusts her grip on her weekender. 

"You two should get on the road before you hit rush hour. Are you sure you're okay taking the bus?"

"Mom, we're only going across town, it's not like we're driving down to TJ."

"She's just kidding," Allison says quickly when she sees the look on her mom's face. "I promise, I'm definitely not taking her to Tijuana." 

Her mother sniffs and gives them a trembling smile. "I know, it's just, you're all grown up and it still feels like yesterday that you were level ones. I'm just so _proud_ of you girls."

"Thanks Ms. Martin." Allison slings her arm around Lydia's shoulders. "We'll be fine, I promise."

Lydia hugs her mom one more time and leaves the office with Allison, they walk through the lobby and out the glass front doors. Lydia drops her bags on the sidewalk in shock because parked by the curb, hazard lights flashing, is Stiles' Jeep. He's leaning up against the trunk with Scott, giving them a huge smile and waving when he sees them.

"Surprise!" Allison squeals.

Lydia grabs her by the wrist and turns around so her back is to the boys. "What's going on?"

Allison beams, the dimple in her cheek popping. "I'm throwing you a normal girl birthday party!"

Lydia blinks, turning over her shoulder for a moment to glance back where Scott and Stiles are waiting patiently for them. " _What?_ "

"I didn't invite anyone besides the guys 'cus I figured you weren't really serious about having a million friends at the lake house but I have everything else! Booze, balloons, cake, boys...." Allison bites her lip. "Is it too much? If it's too much I can call it off, they'll understand."

Lydia blinks at her. "You - did this for me?"

Allison glances over Lydia's shoulder at Scott. "Well not _totally_ for you, but like, a solid eighty-five percent."

"You planned a birthday party for me _this morning?_ "

Allison tilts her chin towards the boys. "I had a little help, but, yeah. Do you like it?"

Lydia throws her arms around Allison. "I love it."

Allison giggles and hugs her back. "Really?"

"Yes, but we better get the hell out of here before my mom catches us."

"Good point." Allison waves at Scott and he and Stiles come over to grab their bags.

"So are you going to tell us about casting or are you planning on letting us die of anticipation?" Stiles asks, shouldering her weekender and tucking her yoga mat under his arm.

"I got a good role," Lydia confirms, following him to the car, suddenly a little shy, just really realizing that she's about to spend an _entire weekend_ with Stiles.

"Good?!" Allison exclaims, trailing behind them to stand by the trunk of the Jeep. "Sure Lydia, and hell is just a hot place. She got cast in the _best_ piece in the showcase."

"Oh yeah?" Stiles grins and wedges their weekenders next to his and Scott's lacrosse bags. 

Lydia smiles proudly. "It's an original."

"By _Peter Hale_ , only one of the biggest choreographers in the world," Allison adds. "You're looking at the future prima ballerina of the Hale Ballet Company."

"I'm not in the company yet," Lydia murmurs, flushing with pleasure all over again as she relives the thrill of seeing her name on the list.

"That's amazing, congratulations!" Stiles' hug is enveloping and warm; Lydia lets herself sink into it a little, her body flooding with heat. She didn't know how good it would feel until right now, to have someone just be happy for her, without any underlying competition or agenda.

Lydia leans against the car as Scott tosses in Allison's bags and slams the trunk. "What about you, babe?" he asks Allison.

"Romeo and Juliet with Isaac," Allison says.

"It's a really good pas de deux," Lydia adds. 

Scott gives Allison a dopey smile and kisses her, his hands cupping her cheeks. "That's awesome."

"Okay, we ready to go?" Stiles asks. "Is that everything? Because I don't think there's any room in the car left. Lydia, you know where we're going, right?"

"Yeah, I can navigate." Lydia shoots Allison a pleased smile and lets herself into the passenger seat of the Jeep; this is so much better than taking the bus.

Scott and Allison get in the back while Stiles walks around to the front and gets into the driver's seat before looking at Lydia expectantly. She opens her maps app and plugs in the lake house's address, hits enter and hands it to Stiles, who skims it and nods, starting the car. Lydia lays her phone on the dash, kicks off her boots and curls up on the seat, her heart fluttering in her chest - she's in a car with a guy she likes, her best friend, and her boyfriend; they're going to spend the entire weekend together and it's good, she earned it, she _deserves_ this.

Everything she ever wanted is right in front of her, all she has to do is reach her hand out and take it. Lydia watches the trees blur out the window as Stiles drives, imagining herself dancing onstage to a full house, stage lights hot of her skin, music vibrating up from the floor. There's a rustle from the backseat as Allison digs around in her bag for something and leans over the console, a granola bar in her hand held out in offering.

"I'm fine," Lydia says casually, staring down at the wrapper to read the flavor. _Chocolate peanut butter chip_.

"You didn't have lunch," Allison says stubbornly.

"You didn't?" Stiles says, shooting her a concerned glance. "Do you want me to stop? We can stop and get you something."

"I'm fine," she says again, annoyed, and takes the bar from Allison. "I'm just keyed up from casting, I can't eat when I'm excited."

"Well, casting's up now," Allison says, and sits back in her seat with her arms crossed, like, _end of discussion_.

Lydia aggressively tears the wrapper open, breaks off a third of the bar and puts the whole chunk in her mouth, chews chews chews and swallows, retrieves her water bottle from her cross-body bag and counts to ten as she sips, takes the rest of the bar and surreptitiously slips it into her bag for later.

When they get to the lake house Stiles parks out front and they all tumble out of the car. Lydia walks towards the trunk to get her bags but Stiles waves her off, blocking her path. "I'm under explicit instructions not to let you see the entire contents of the trunk."

"Really?" she asks, eyeing Allison curiously.

"Why don't you go unlock the door, we can get all the bags and stuff," Allison says, pulling brown paper bags out of the trunk one by one and handing them to Scott.

"Okay," Lydia shrugs, because she's not going to complain about getting out of manual labor. She jogs up to the front porch of the house, gets the keys out of her bag and unlocks the door. She steps into the dark living room and turns the lights on, revealing white walls and dark hardwood flooring, sheets draped over the couches and chairs. Lydia walks around the room uncovering furniture and stashes the white sheets in an empty cabinet of the entertainment unit. She plugs in the cable box and makes sure the tv works before moving on to the kitchen. She turns all the lights turn on, plugs in the fridge and opens a window to get some fresh air circulating.

Back in the living room Scott and Allison are standing at the bottom of the stairs with everyone's duffles and the girls' dance bags. Lydia directs them up to the second floor and they assign bedrooms; Scott and Allison take the master bedroom and Lydia claims the room she used to sleep in when she'd visit as a kid, which means Stiles gets put in the guest bedroom down the hall by default.

"We can put sheets on all the beds," Allison says. "Maybe you and Stiles could do the grocery run?"

Lydia wrinkles her forehead, thinking of the grocery bags she saw Allison unload. "I thought you brought food."

Allison grins mysteriously and opens the hall linen closet. "We brought other things. Just go, it's fine, we got this."

"Are you sure?" She and Allison were going to buy groceries for the weekend together after they unpacked, at least that was the plan before Allison hijacked it.

"We'll be fine, promise. Here, use this." Allison reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a credit card. "My dad says happy birthday by the way."

Lydia leans against the wall, feeling anxious for the first time since she saw her name on the cast list. "Did you seriously make all of this happen in one morning?"

"She did," Scott confirms proudly, wrapping his arm around Allison's shoulders and giving Lydia a gentle smile. "Stiles and I helped, we heard it was for an important cause."

"And all you need to do is take this" - Allison presses the credit card into her hands - "and get some groceries so we all don't starve, Scott and I can take care of the rest."

Lydia pockets the credit card in surrender and goes back downstairs, leaving Scott and Allison to set up the bedrooms and no doubt start screwing the second they hear the front door shut. She finds Stiles in the kitchen, unpacking bags of tortilla chips and pretzels onto the counter. "Hey," he says, folding up an empty paper bag. "You don't have any food."

She rolls her eyes, pointing at the bags of snacks. "And what are those?"

"C'mon, those are for like, drunk snacking, we need something I can turn into actual meals. Scott and I are teenage boys Lydia, we will literally either starve or order pizza three times a day." 

"Allison put me on grocery duty," she explains. "Can you drive me to the store?"

"I thought you'd never ask." He follows her back through the living room, waiting for her while she grabs her jacket and her bag.

"Bye!" Lydia shouts from the doorway when they leave, and locks the door behind them.

Stiles jogs down the steps and down the driveway towards the Jeep while Lydia follows, unable to keep up with those long legs. He opens the passenger door for her and she shoots him a quick smile as she climbs inside the car. He shuts the door for her and goes around to the driver's side to start the Jeep.

"Beacon Hills Market is just down the street that way," Lydia tells him.

"Got it." Stiles backs down the driveway and turns onto the main road. "So you must be totally stoked, right? Isn't this like, a huge deal, getting picked by that choreographer?"

"Peter Hale," she says. "He used to be the artistic director for the company."

"Used to be?"

"He resigned last fall."

Stiles shoots her a glance before checking his mirrors and changing lanes. "Why'd he resign?"

Lydia presses her cheek against the window. "You said you watched some of their ballets?"

"Yeah, well, just the ones on their website. Giselle, and, um, let's see, Cinderella, Jewels, La Baya...."

"La Bayadere," she supplies.

"Yeah, La Bayadere, oh, and Swan Lake."

Lydia's not exactly shocked that the company doesn't have that one recording of The Little Mermaid on the official company website, considering the circumstances. "Okay, so you know the girl who played the black and white swans in Swan Lake? The principal ballerina?"

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles nods vigorously. "Brunette, legs for days, kind of impossible to forget?"

"Okay, that was Laura Hale"-

"Like Peter Hale?"

"She was his niece."

Stiles slows down for a red light, eyebrows furrowed. "Was?"

"She died. Right at the beginning of the season."

"Jesus," Stiles exhales. "How'd she die? Was she sick?"

Lydia shakes her head. "She killed herself."

Stiles' jaw drops open. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, the company almost went down with her. It was a huge scandal."

"What _happened_? I mean, why would she do that?"

"No one knows," Lydia murmurs. It feels strange to talk about Laura, everyone at school knows better than to say her name out loud; she's a ghost that haunts them all, their fallen idol.

"But she must have had a reason," Stiles protests. "People don't just kill themselves for no reason."

"She had lots of reasons not to," Lydia says. "She was a principal dancer with one of the most prestigious companies in the world. You saw Swan Lake, even if you don't know anything about dance you could tell she was incredible, couldn't you?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, his voice softening. "She was - she _was_ incredible. She did things I didn't know were humanly possible."

"And then she just..." Lydia snaps her fingers. "No one knows why."

The light turns green and Stiles presses his foot to the gas. "She must have been depressed though."

"Yeah," Lydia agrees reluctantly.

It's hard to imagine what kind of headspace Laura must have been in, to do something like that to herself. Everyone always acts like beauty and talent are safeguards, that they have magical protective powers. That no one as supremely beautiful and gifted as Laura would ever consider throwing it all away. But Stiles is right, something must have happened. What would it take, to make someone do something like that? How far was she pushed, that she couldn’t take it anymore?

When they get to Beacon Hills Market Stiles parks outside and Lydia follows him across the parking lot to the store. Stiles walks through the sliding glass doors with her and grabs a cart, raising an eyebrow at her. "Did you have a list or are we winging it?"

"Well my list was made before I knew you and Scott were coming, so I guess we're winging it."

Stiles tilts his head, following her to the right towards the produce section. "Hey, you're cool with this, right? I know Allison threw everything together totally last minute and it was a surprise, are you sure you don't mind us crashing?"

"If I minded you would know," she informs him, and heads towards the vegetables.

Lydia tosses a bag of baby carrots into the cart and a package of spinach, wanders over to the fruit and grabs a couple pints of blueberries and a bunch of bananas that aren't too ripe. "Okay, what next?"

Stiles frowns down at the bag of carrots like he's personally offended by them. "We need stuff I can make actual meals out of, for one thing."

"Can you cook?" Lydia asks, following him over to the baking aisle.

"Nothing fancy but yeah, I can handle the basics." Stiles bends down and takes a big box of pancake batter mix from a shelf and puts it in the cart.

"How'd you learn to cook?" she asks, staring at the picture on the box, perfect fluffy golden brown pancakes with pats of butter melting in the center.

Her mouth waters.

Stiles is glancing at the shelves. "After my mom died it was basically learn how to cook or starve, so I had to figure it out." 

Lydia gets stuck in place, watching him push the cart in front of her. His mom is _dead_?

He glances back over his shoulder and frowns when he sees her frozen next to a box of cake mix. "Shit," he mutters, looking suddenly regretful. "I thought Allison must have told you or something. I was a kid when it happened, it was a long ago."

She blinks rapidly, the fluorescent store lights burning her eyes. "What happened?"

"She had this rare brain disease. Frontotemporal dementia? It's where"-

"The frontal and temporal lobes of the brain progressively degenerate," she says softly.

Stiles squints at her. "How'd you know that?"

Lydia shrugs. "I got into neurology last summer."

It's not like she had much else to do other than physical therapy. She couldn't take the summer program at school obviously, she had to occupy herself with academics or she would've lost her mind completely.

Stiles sighs and nudges her with his shoulder. "Come on, there's a lot more we need to get."

Lydia presses her lips together and gives him a small smile, the words _I'm sorry_ stuck in the back of her throat. Stiles reaches down and squeezes her hand. 

"It's okay," he says, like he can read her mind. "Really, my bad for throwing that out there in the middle of a grocery store. So not cool."

He offers her elbow to her, a hopeful expression on his face. It's easy to read that he wants her to drop it and she doesn't blame him one bit, it's not like she'd want to explain the nasty details of her parents' break up in public. She tosses her hair over her shoulder and slips her arm through his, and the smile Stiles gives her is warm and grateful. 

She lets him takes the reins, following him around the store, an anxious wave rushing through her as he systematically selects items and places them into the cart: loaves of bread, two dozen eggs, a gallon of milk, a carton of orange juice, deli meat, sliced cheese, butter, mustard, maple syrup, a tub of hummus, jars of salsa, boxes of uncooked pasta, cereal. Lydia occasionally adds things she knows she can eat - a few cartons of Greek yogurt, nonfat string cheese, a handful of Lärabars.

"Do you seriously think we'll go through all of this in three days?" she asks him, tossing her bars in next to a jar of peanut butter.

"Teenage boys, Lydia," he reminds her. "Hey, are you doing okay?"

She blinks. "Excuse me?"

"You must be starving, right? I wouldn't exactly call a granola bar lunch."

She fingers her bag where the rest of the bar is hiding at the bottom under her wallet. "I'm okay."

"You sure?" He picks up one of the bars and dangles it at her. "Come on, don't you dance for like five hours a day? You have to be hungry."

She takes the bar and drops it back in the cart. "I only had morning class today."

"Oh, so you only danced for what? Two hours?" He's grinning at her, his tone playful and sarcastic.

"Two and a half, actually," she says flippantly, raising her chin.

"Okay, then you should definitely eat this," he says, and the playfulness vanishes.

"By the time we get back it'll be almost dinner time," she says dismissively. "I want to get some coffee, I think we have a French press somewhere."

Stiles looks like he wants to argue with her so Lydia stomps off towards the coffee and tea aisle before he can start, forcing him to follow her. She tosses a bag of organic ground Sumatra blend into the cart and Stiles nods approvingly before walking to the front of the store to check out. He actually takes his wallet out when the cashier rings them up and Lydia has to force him to put it away, handing over Allison's credit card. 

There's tension between them that wasn't there before as Stiles drives them back to the lake house, turning up the radio so they don't have to talk. Lydia plays with the ends of her hair, mentally steeling herself. She hadn't really thought about it, that spending three days with Stiles, Scott and Allison means _eating_ with them, all her private strange habits about food will be on display.

It's not like she doesn't eat though, she rationalizes. It's not like she has a _real_ problem. It's not her fault she doesn't have Allison's metabolism and naturally lean frame. Ballet is a physical art, she's just doing what's necessary to get her body where she needs it to be. She's a dancer, she has to be disciplined. She can't let herself lose control.

When they get back to the lake house Lydia tries to help Stiles with the groceries but he waves her off, handing her the lightest bag and carrying the rest of them himself. Lydia runs ahead of him to unlock the door and hold it open for him. Scott and Allison are sprawled out on the couch, some superhero movie playing on tv.

"Hey, we weren't sure when you'd be getting back so we ordered pizza," Scott says, getting up to take the grocery bag from Lydia and following Stiles into the kitchen to put the food away.

Lydia takes off her boots and slings her bomber jacket over the back of an armchair before walking over to the couch and plopping down next to Allison, who smiles and sets down the glass of whatever she's drinking on the coffee table before scooting closer so she can stretch out, laying her head in Lydia's lap and looking up at her.

"You doing okay?" Allison asks softly.

Lydia nods, reaching down to tangle her fingers in Allison's curls, finger combing out the knots. "Sure."

Allison sighs, her eyes shutting. "You're already freaking out about the showcase, aren't you?"

"Aren't you?"

Allison smiles dreamily, her cheeks flushed. "I can't believe they gave us Romeo and Juliet. I almost threw up when Peter came in for the evaluation, I thought for sure they'd give me some shitty role in the corp behind Cora or something."

"Hey." Lydia curls her body protectively over Allison. "You're not her. They know that."

Allison turns her head sideways and kisses Lydia's palm. "I know, it's just... I guess I always wondered if they ever saw me for _me_ and not...."

"They wouldn't have given you the pas de deux if they didn't think you could handle it."

"I was just surprised, I guess...." Allison laughs, sounding a little choked up. "Sorry, Scott and I broke out the alcohol while you guys were at the store, I'm a little tipsy."

"Drinking already?" Lydia says teasingly. She grabs Allison's glass and takes a sip, the flavor crisp and sharp. Gin and tonic. "You've been a bad girl, Allison."

That's all it takes for Allison to totally lose it, cracking up and curling over on her side. "I've been _really_ bad," she confesses, her body shaking as she laughs. 

"Allison Argent, did you and Scott fuck in my grandmothers' old bedroom?" Lydia whispers, feigning faux-shock, pretending to be scandalized.

Allison's in hysterics, laughing so hard she starts to cry. "Scott brought _so many_ condoms."

"Well as long as you're being safe," Lydia says primly.

"We have _extra_ ," Allison howls, like it's the funniest thing ever. "So you know, if you're in need"-

"Oh my god, cool it," Lydia hisses. "We're just friends, okay?"

"Friends or _friends_?" Allison giggles.

"Scott, I'm cutting Allison off," Lydia shouts.

"No, no!" Allison whines. "No fair, I'm sorry, I'll be good, I promise."

Scott comes out of the kitchen grinning, Stiles following him, holding a glass of Coke. "Aw come on, it's not her fault she's a lightweight," Scott says, sitting down at the end of the couch, picking up Allison's feet and dropping them into his lap.

The pizza arrives a few minutes later, Stiles insists on paying and Lydia can't bring herself to fight him. She follows him into the kitchen, pizza boxes balanced precariously on his forearm, and shows him where they keep the plates. He doles out three slices on each plate and Lydia grabs a roll of paper towels, plastic cups and the Brita pitcher of water, and they take everything back out to the living room, working easily together without having to say a word, like they're mentally operating on exactly the same wavelength.

Scott's turned the overhead lights off, leaving just the lamp by the front door on, the tv glowing in the dim light. Lydia can see the sun starting to set out the window, the sky turning apricot and fuchsia and finally indigo. Stiles passes out plates, Lydia tears off a paper towel and sits on one side of the couch next to Allison as everyone gets their pizza and settles in, Stiles taking the armchair to Lydia's right. The movie they're watching is some kind of trilogy the channel is airing back to back, Lydia has no idea what's happening onscreen, she and Stiles came back when the first movie of the three was almost over, but she's more concerned about her pizza.

She has to eat it, Allison would throw an absolute shit fit if Lydia skipped lunch _and_ dinner. Lydia presses the paper towel over the pizza, soaking up a layer of grease before bringing a slice up to her lips and taking a small bite. It's like her body comes to life, her stomach suddenly clenching greedily, mouth exploding with flavor as she chews. She has to swallow a moan, how could she have forgotten how damn _good_ pizza is?

She eats as slowly as possible, savoring every bite, if she has to eat it she's going to enjoy it, dammit, and she does, she can't remember the last time she gave in to her body like this. Still, she's uncomfortably full by the time she finishes the second slice, there's no way she can eat more. She passes her plate over to Allison and raises an questioning eyebrow.

Allison takes the plate with one hand, setting down her drink with the other. "Did you get enough?"

"I had two," Lydia assures her, carefully wiping down her fingers with another paper towel.

Allison looks pleasantly surprised; she takes the pizza and holds it up to Scott's mouth so he can take a bite before taking one herself. Lydia relaxes back against the couch, feeling like she's passed some kind of test, hyper aware of Stiles watching them out of the corner of his eye.

None of them make it very late, by nine-thirty Allison's passed out against Scott, her face mashed into his shoulder. Scott carries her upstairs and Stiles follows a few minutes later, giving Lydia a quick hug and saying something about an AP history paper he has to write before Monday. Once they're all upstairs she goes into the kitchen, puts the pizza boxes by the back door next to the trash, rinses all the glasses and plates and puts them in the dishwasher before turning off the light and going up to her room.

There's not a lot of floor space between the queen-sized bed, the nightstand and dressers, she'll have more room to stretch if she does it downstairs. Lydia changes into leggings and a sports bra, pulls on a cropped tee [shirt](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529188283515) and her socks, grabs her yoga mat and her phone, and tiptoes back downstairs.

She spreads out her mat on the floor in the middle of the living room and kneels, opening her music app on her phone and starting her Tchaikovsky playlist, turning the volume down low. It isn't good to stretch on cold muscles and she hasn't danced since this morning so she does a few laps around the room, swinging her arms around and rolling her shoulders before coming back to the mat.

Lydia starts with neck stretches, tipping her chin down to her chest and then lifting her head up and slightly back. She does a few repetitions and then turns her head side to side, slowly, glancing over each shoulder, careful not to push past her limits. She drops her chin to her chest again and lets the weight of her head pull her down, rolling through her spine until she's dangling upside down, legs straight, fingertips brushing the floor. She bends her knees a little and pushes her head against her knees, stretching her hamstrings for a minute before bending her knees all the way and getting down on the floor.

She gets on her hands and knees and does a series of cat/cows, arching and flexing her spine before pushing back into child's pose, forehead against the mat, breathing deeply into her back. She threads the needle, weaving one arm under the other and turning her head to each side to stretch out the backs of her shoulders before flipping over onto her back.

Lydia goes through her ab series, ending with a plank, holding it until every muscle in her body is shaking. She does a cobra stretch on her stomach, hands under her shoulders and pushing up to straighten her arms, lifting her core, arching her head back as she stretches her abdominal muscles. She flips over onto her side, stacks her legs so her hips are level and does a series of leg lifts, pointing the toes of her top leg and slowly raising it as high as she can go and then lowering it back down, doing sets of ten reps on each side until her legs burn. She finishes on her back, pulling her legs into her chest one at a time, stretching out her hamstrings and glutes.

Lydia rolls up her mat, double checks that the front door is locked and turns off the lamp. She walks up the stairs, the light from the upstairs hallway glowing above her, and when she gets to the second floor she almost runs right into Scott, who's standing at the top of the stairs shirtless, a pair of lacrosse shorts hanging low on his hips.

"Christ, Scott," Lydia hisses, reaching for the wall to steady herself. "What are you doing?"

"Getting Allison a glass of water." He looks her up and down. "Were you working out?"

"So what if I was?" she says shortly.

Scott wrinkles his forehead. "Didn't you have class today?"

"Just technique and pointe."

"Lydia, your technique class is like two hours long," he says softly.

She stares blankly at him. "So?"

He sighs, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "Don't you think you're pushing it a little?"

"Scott, I've been dancing since I was three, I know how much I can handle."

"Lydia, over-training can be really dangerous," he says seriously.

"What are you, a doctor?" Lydia sneers.

He looks frustrated. "I don't have to be a doctor to know that you're taking this too far."

Lydia blinks rapidly, suddenly lightheaded. "Did Allison say something to you?" 

"Like what?" he asks quietly, looking down at the floor.

"I - don't know," she mumbles, her cheeks hot, inexplicably feeling like Scott caught her doing something private and humiliating.

"Look," he finally sighs, lifting his head to look at her again. "I just don't want you to get hurt, okay?"

She freezes. Scott was there the day that it happened; he came up to the studio with Nurse McCall and carried her out of class, whispering softly to her the whole time that it was going to be okay, he had her. He's seen her at her most vulnerable, broken and terrified, and he’s never said anything about it to her, because that's just the kind of guy he is. He cares about people.

"I know," she whispers. 

He nods, seemingly satisfied. "Okay. I'm, um, gonna get Allison water. See you in the morning?"

"Goodnight," she says softly.

"Night." Scott gives her a gentle smile and turns to head down the stairs.

Lydia makes it back to her room on shaking legs and shuts her door, presses her back against it and slides down to the floor, head pressed to her knees, reliving it - the fall, the shock of the landing, phantom pain lighting her body on fire as she shuts her eyes and sits there, just breathing, until she can move again.


	8. coffee and confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is officially the longest thing I've ever written (and it's not even close to over)! Kudos to all you darlings for coming along for the ride ;)

On Friday morning Lydia's alarm on her phone goes off at eight-thirty; she drags herself out of bed and stumbles into the small attached bathroom. She splashes cold water on her face to help herself wake up, uses the toilet and brushes her teeth. Lydia combs her hair out and secures it in a high ponytail, moisturizers, and pats on a little concealer under her eyes.

Her stomach feels heavy when she remembers last night, the two slices of pizza. Lydia inhales deeply and counts to five before exhaling for another five count. It's fine, she tells herself. It's her birthday, it's spring break, she's allowed to loosen up a _little_ , right? How much damage can she possibly do in three days?

In her room she dumps the contents of her weekender on the bed and selects a pair of white Alo leggings, a white and grey yoga bra, and a cropped light pink tee [shirt](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529259082699). She pulls on a pair of socks, gathers up her yoga mat, phone, and water bottle, and goes downstairs. 

Lydia rests her mat against the wall at the bottom of the stairs and goes into the kitchen. She fills a teapot with water and sets it to boil on the stove, gets the bag of coffee out of the fridge and opens it. She digs the French press out of a cabinet, quickly rinses it in the sink and scoops coffee into the bottom of the canister. When the water's ready Lydia pours it into the French press and lets it sit to brew. She fills up her water bottle and leans against the counter, skimming through her news app until the coffee's ready.

Lydia finds a mug with a sunflower on it and pours herself a cup of coffee, opens up the small cardboard carton of the coconut creamer she got at the grocery store with Stiles yesterday and stirs it into her mug until the coffee turns a creamy light brown. She grabs her water bottle and phone with one hand and the mug in the other and carries everything to the living room. She places her water bottle and the coffee on coasters on the coffee table, retrieves her mat, unrolls it over the floor in front of the tv and turns it on.

She turns the volume down low and channel surfs until she gets to MSNBC. Lydia sits cross legged on her mat and leans back against the coffee table, holding her mug in her lap. She sips her coffee, stretching her feet out in front of her and slowly pointing and flexing her feet. Once she's had enough coffee to feel ready to move she puts her mug down and rolls over on her hands and knees.

Lydia starts with cat/cows, breathing deeply from her belly and warming up her spine. She takes her time, rolling her hips around, doing circles with her head to work out any kinks in her neck. She loves these little peaceful moments in the morning when no one else is awake but her, connecting to her body as the sun rises, every single movement under her control.

She's worked up to doing a series of sun salutations when Stiles stumbles downstairs in a pair of navy plaid flannel pants and his maroon Beacon Hills LAX sweatshirt, his laptop tucked under one arm. Lydia spreads her legs a little further apart in down dog, peeking at an upside down Stiles standing in the space between her thighs. He's at the bottom stair step, hair adorably rumpled and mouth a little open, staring at her.

"Can I help you?" she asks sweetly, bending her elbows and lowering herself slowly down on her stomach.

"Coffee?" he croaks desperately, sounding half-asleep.

Lydia pushes her hands against the mat and straightens her arms, stretching up into a cobra and turning her head over her shoulder to look back at him. "In the kitchen. Can you bring it out here? I need a refill."

Stiles rubs his eyes and disappears into the kitchen, Lydia straightens her arms and pushes up into a plank, keeping her hips from dropping and squeezing her core. He returns a minute later with the French press, a mug, and the carton of creamer, Stiles tops her mug off before pouring a fresh cup for himself, leaning back against the couch with his laptop balanced on his thighs. Sunlight pours in through the window and across his face, making his eyes flash gold, his hair illuminated, like he's something holy.

"Do you mind if I hang out in here?" he asks, long fingers wrapping around his mug. "I have to do some research for my paper but I really can't function without caffeine." 

Lydia comes down from her plank and sits cross legged on the edge of her mat so she can dribble more creamer into her mug. "Sure, I'm just stretching."

He nods, his eyes skimming over her body. "Is that part of your very specific training regimen?"

There's only a light, friendly layer of teasing in his tone and she suddenly remembers with a sharp jolt giving him a drunken lecture about her training schedule at that party last week. She takes a sip of coffee and shoots him a sly smile. "Flexibility is important, of course."

"Of course," Stiles echoes faintly. "You gotta do what you gotta do, right?"

Lydia smiles into her mug. "What's your paper on?"

Stiles takes a big gulp of coffee and lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief. "The government's treatment of Japanese -Americans during World War II, specifically how it set a precedent for modern day bias against citizens from countries of origins that we're engaged in military conflicts with."

Lydia blinks, bringing her mug up to her lips. "Good topic," she murmurs, impressed. He doesn't talk much about school, she can clearly see that he's smart in a razor-sharp, witty sort of way but she didn't know he was academic as well.

Stiles shrugs, powering up his laptop. "Mr. Yukimora has a hard-on for anything that touches on human rights, he'll eat it up."

"Mr. Yukimora?"

"Yeah, he's our history teacher," he says vaguely, typing something with one hand and squinting at the laptop screen. "Oh, wait, I think his daughter goes to your school. Japanese, long hair, kind of shy? Kylie? No, wait, Kendall?"

"Kira," Lydia corrects, swallowing down a laugh. "She's in my level."

Stiles grins in a soft easy way that makes Lydia want to freeze time to keep him like this, sun-drenched and sleepy and hers. "Small world."

Lydia manages a tight smile back, unable to deny the way she feels when he looks at her like that - like there's something between them that's bigger than her, something intangible but real all the same, something completely out of her control.

It scares her. It's that feeling she got the first night they met - she doesn't even really _want_ to like him but she just can't help it, they seem to - well.

They fit together.

Which is completely ridiculous. She's going to be a star, she's going to set the ballet world on fire at the showcase. She's not the kind of girl who can be someone's girlfriend right now, not when she's so close to getting everything she's always wanted.

She can't risk any distractions, especially distractions with golden eyes and beautiful hands and a smart mouth.

She takes a few more sips of coffee and puts her mug down, returns to the mat. She lays down on her right side and points her toes, lifts her top leg up and draws little circles in the air, moving in one direction and then the other, pulling her stomach in towards her spine and keeping her hips stacked. She moves on to leg raises, top leg then the bottom, doing an interval of pulses after each set before spinning around to lie down and do everything on the other side.

By the time Scott and [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529259188903) come downstairs around ten, fully dressed and bright eyed, Stiles is tapping away at his laptop on the couch and Lydia is lying flat on her back doing her ab routine. When she spots Lydia on the floor Allison gasps dramatically and points an accusing finger at her.

"Are you _working out_?" Allison looks horrified, like she's caught Lydia doing something awful and taboo.

"Showcase rehearsals start next week," Lydia reminds her flatly.

"But we're on _vacation_. It's _spring break_."

Lydia flips off her mat and rolls up to stand. "Slack off at your own risk, then."

Allison rolls her eyes up to the ceiling. "At least take a break for breakfast."

Lydia reaches up and straightens her ponytail. "I haven't showered yet."

"Go ahead, we can get it started," Allison says generously, like she's the host and Lydia a guest.

For some reason Lydia looks back at Stiles, who shrugs and closes his laptop. "Eggs or pancakes?"

"Both!" Scott says enthusiastically.

Stiles glances at Lydia and smirks. "What was I saying about teenage boys?"

"That you're only one evolutionary step away from being total animals with uncontrollable appetites?" Lydia scoops up her mat and phone and escapes towards the stairs while Scott and Allison loudly debate blueberry versus banana pancakes. 

"Hey, what do you want me to make you?" Stiles calls after her.

Lydia freezes halfway up the stairs because he offered it up so casually, like it's not an incredibly intimate gesture to cook breakfast for someone. "Whatever you're all having is fine," she says stiffly, and hurried up the rest of the stairs, her cheeks flaming.

She goes into her bedroom and drops the yoga mat on the floor before going into the bathroom. Lydia peels her clothes off and twists her hair into a tight little knot on the top of her head before stepping into the shower. She takes her time, scrubs with the travel sized body wash she packed and shaves her legs. When she gets out Lydia sprays dry shampoo into her hair and brushes it out before re-doing her ponytail, wrapping a gold plated hairband around the elastic. She stands naked in front of the mirror to do her makeup, light foundation, mascara, and lipgloss.

Back in her room she puts on a plain black satin thong and a matching bra and goes through the tops Allison made her pack, selecting a soft pink velvet [sweatshirt](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529260498168) and pairing it with her jeans. She slides her feet into her slippers to keep them warm (and to hide her toes, none of the girls at school walk around barefoot, ever), grabs her phone, and goes back downstairs.

In the kitchen Scott and Allison are both at the table with glasses of juice in front of them, leaning into each other in that little couple-y sort of way they always act around each other - one of Allison's legs is slung across his thigh and Scott's holding one of her hands, idly tracing over her palm with his fingers.

"Hey, Lydia." Stiles is standing by the counter, scraping something from a pan onto a plate. "You want eggs or pancakes?"

"Eggs please," she says, because _protein_. She walks over to the fridge and gets out one of the pints of blueberries, rinses them in the sink and transfers them to a bowl.

"Here." Stiles passes her a plate with a scoop of scrambled eggs on it, shooting her a quick smile that makes her stomach drop. He's constantly disarming her like that, catching her off guard before she has all her shields up.

Lydia can practically taste the butter, she tightens her fingers around the plate and carries it along with the blueberries over to the table to sit down across from Allison. Allison says something to Scott but Lydia doesn't hear it because she's too focused on the food on her plate. She takes her fork and carefully cuts off a small bite of the eggs and puts it in her mouth.

They're good, soft and buttery, way better than the scrambled egg whites she makes herself. Lydia chews slowly, making herself count to ten before swallowing and taking another small bite. Stiles comes over, carrying a plate of pancakes in one hand and the rest of the eggs with the other. He sets the plates down in the center of the table and flops down in the chair next to her. Lydia watches him out of the corner of her eye as he moves around, stretches out one long arm to spear two pancakes with his fork and transfer them to his plate before absolutely drowning them in maple syrup.

Lydia takes another bite of her eggs and swallows, tries not to look at the pancakes, all that sugar, and when that doesn't work she takes a few blueberries and pops them into her mouth. 

_Focus_.

She doesn't need sugar. Eating sugar would be stupid and Lydia is not stupid.

"Lydia!"

Her head snaps up, Allison's looking at her expectantly. "What?"

Allison kicks her lightly under the table. "Stiles asked if you were applying to any schools?"

Lydia puts down her fork, suddenly distracted, turning towards Stiles. "School?"

"Like, for college," Stiles says. "Do ballet dancers go to college?"

Lydia shrugs. "Only if they aren't good enough to get into a company."

"Lydia," Allison murmurs.

"What? It's true."

" _I_ applied to schools," Allison reminds her.

Lydia stabs at her eggs with her fork. "You know what I mean. Besides, _Juliet_ , I think you're going to be fine, unless you genuinely have some deep compulsion to live in Indiana."

"IU has a really good ballet program," Allison explains.

"They also have snow," Lydia says with a shudder.

"And the East Coast doesn't?" Allison gives Stiles a placating sort of smile. "Lydia got into school last year."

Stiles' eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline as he glances sideways at Lydia. "You got into school already?"

She shrugs. "I finished my academic credits early. I deferred, obviously. It's just a backup."

"Where'd you get in?" he asks curiously.

Lydia cuts patterns into her eggs with her fork. "MIT."

Stiles makes a choking noise. "You got into _MIT_? As a _junior?_ "

"Didn't you know?" Allison says innocently, flashing Lydia the barest wink. "Lydia's really smart."

"It's not a big deal," Lydia murmurs, shooting Allison a death glare.

"Oh yeah," Stiles says faintly. "Sure. MIT. Totally not a big deal."

*

By late afternoon Stiles and Allison are firmly in vacation mode, they're both drinking a concoction Allison came up with that consists of Bacardi, orange juice, and Sprite, sprawled out on the couch watching another movie Lydia's never seen. She and Jackson would go to the movies sometime but it was really just an excuse to go for a drive in his Porsche and be together, if they even made it to the movie they'd spend the whole time making out in the back row and miss the entire plot anyway.

Scott disappears upstairs for a few minutes and comes back down in track pants and an Under Armor long sleeve, running shoes on his feet. "I'm going to go for a run, anyone want to come?"

Allison smiles sweetly at him and wriggles deeper into her corner of the sofa. "Absolutely not."

"What she said," Stiles says, head thrown back against the other end of the couch.

The thing about Scott is, he really is just like a puppy. Lydia's known this about him since they were kids - he's sweet and loyal and needs lots of exercise. Unlike Stiles, who always seems to be in a constant flow of motion and nervous energy, Scott is calm and measured and gets all his alpha male aggression out of his system in healthy ways like working out.

"I'll go with you," Lydia offers, from where she's perched on the edge of the armchair.

Scott frowns slightly. "Didn't you work out already?"

"I didn't do cardio."

He shrugs. "Okay. Go change, I'll wait for you."

She runs up to her room and changes into a pair of Alo leggings, a sports bra, tee shirt, and cropped [sweatshirt](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529260574162) before putting on her Nikes and going back downstairs where Scott is waiting patiently for her at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister.

"Come on, we can go out the back way." Lydia tilts her head towards the kitchen and Scott follows her through it to the back door. She walks outside and heads towards the trees, pointing vaguely to their left. "There's a good path that runs along the lake."

Scott nods, hands in his pockets as he walks along next to her. "We don't have to run."

Lydia shoots him a suspicious look. "Why wouldn't we?"

He shrugs. "I know some of the girls think it's hard on their joints. We can just walk, I don't really care."

"Malia runs all the time."

"Malia's kind of crazy," he points out. "And you have an injury."

"Look, your constant concern is cute and everything, but I'm fine, okay? It was almost a year ago." Lydia picks up her pace, forcing Scott to keep up with her as she breaks into a light jog.

"Okay," he says, running along next to her, shooting her an uneasy look. 

Lydia turns onto the path that runs parallel to the lake and Scott falls into stride next to her. She lets him set the pace, nice and easy as they break into a run. Scott's right, running isn't good for her knees if she overdoes it but her legs feel fine and she needs to keep her stamina up. Her first rehearsal with Peter and Aiden is on Tuesday; she has to be in good shape, even taking a few days off could set her back.

Scott runs a bit ahead of her and Lydia follows him, getting into a steady rhythm, listening to the slap of their shoes against the dirt. She's not crazy about running like Malia is, she'd rather work out on the elliptical in the gym for cardio, but she needs to be ready for anything. She has to prove to Peter that he made the right choice in casting her, that he can trust her with his work. Lydia is aware that this isn't just a big moment for her - it's his first choreographed piece since Laura died.

She can't even imagine how much attention they're going to get for this, the scrutiny they'll be under.

She thinks about Laura Hale as she runs. Laura never grew old, never retired. She died at the height of stardom, forever young and beautiful, her incredible face and body bringing tears to Lydia's eyes by the sheer perfection of her every movement. Everyone is going to compare them and find Lydia lacking, she's sure of it. Who is she compared to Laura's incredible body and perfectly sculpted face, the effortlessness of her dancing, the maturity and nuance in her performances?

Lydia inhales and an ache hits her right between her ribs, where the cartilage tore. She breathes through it, falling behind Scott a little more. She presses her right hand flat against her ribs but the pain doesn't go away. She grits her teeth, pushing through it, focusing on the back of Scott's head as she runs, willing herself to keep going.

It's just pain, she tells herself. She's stronger than it. 

And then the ache turns into a hot knife and Lydia doubles over, hands folding over her ribs as her lungs burst into flames. Scott gets maybe twenty feet ahead of her before he realizes that she's not running anymore and he turns around, dashing back when he sees her frozen on the path, eyes wide with concern.

"What is it?" he asks breathlessly, catching her by the shoulders before she can fall to her knees. "Is it your ribs?"

She nods jerkily, struggling to breathe against the sensation that she's being torn apart from the inside out. 

"Show me," Scott demands, reaching down with his left hand where her palms are pressed against the right side of her ribcage. "Is it in the cartilage?"

"Spasm," Lydia grits out, lacing her fingers through his and dragging them to the costal cartilage of her sixth and seventh ribs. "Here."

"Okay, okay, let me." Scott lines up his fingers in the grooves between her ribs and pushes them in, fingertips applying steady pressure, rubbing slowly back and forth.

Lydia gasps and squeezes her eyes shut. This used to happen right after the accident, the cartilage would go into spasm, leaving her in tears for hours, curled over on her side on the couch with an infrared heating blanket over her ribs. 

"I know," Scott murmurs sympathetically. "I know it hurts. It'll pass."

His right arm comes around her shoulders and Lydia lets the pressure take her down, dropping her forehead against Scott's chest, his heartbeat solid and steady in her ear. She curls her hands into fists, taking little gasping half-breaths, imagining her lungs squeezing shut, refusing to expand, her bones cracking and crumbling into dust.

"Breathe," Scott says a little sharply. "Keep breathing."

She tries, sharp little stabs of pain making light scatter across her closed eyelids. Scott keeps working his fingers into the cartilage between her ribs, his body a solid presence for her to lean against. Hot tears pool in Lydia's eyes, she swallows down a sob that turns into a choking cough, gasping for air against Scott's chest.

"Slow, slow," he chastises, his right hand rubbing in slow circles between her shoulder blades. "Imagine sipping air through a straw."

She nods frantically, tears sliding out of the corners of her eyes, taking little sips of air like he instructed. It helps, it's easier then trying to get a big lungful all at once. She shakes under Scott's arm, raw and fragile like the first time it happened, helpless in his arms, his warm low voice the only thing keeping her tethered to reality.

"That's better," he says softly. "There you go, you got it."

He's rocking her a little, she realizes, holding her closely to his chest, slow and soothing. Lydia lets out a shuddering breath as the pain crashes over her like a wave and then recedes, slowly, slowly, wringing more tears from her body. She sighs in relief, the fire smoldering out until it's just little bearable sparks, slumping against Scott.

"Is it over?" he whispers.

She nods against his chest, surreptitiously wiping her face against his shirt. Scott exhales, sharp and low, running his thumb back and forth over her ribs a few times before pulling his hand away.

"Come on," he says, and uses the arm still around her shoulders to coax her over to a bench at the edge of the rocky beach on the other side of the path. Lydia allows him to help her sit down next to him, his body right next to her like a shield, like he's afraid it's going to happen again.

Scott tips his head back, staring up at the overcast grey sky. "You told me you were fine."

She's too tired to lie now so she just shrugs, staring out over the frothy water. "It's not usually that bad."

Scott's mouth twists. "You have to get checked out when you go back to school."

Lydia stiffens under his arm. "I can't."

He shoots her an exasperated look. "You have to, you're hurt! At least go see Deaton."

"I did, there's nothing - this is as good as it's going to get, probably."

"Well yeah, if you don't give it enough time to fully heal."

"I took two months off after it happened," Lydia reminds him. "I missed the last half of spring semester. I rehabbed the entire summer."

Scott hums lightly. "You don't think it's inflamed, do you?"

"I don't know," she admits. "It's not usually this bad."

"Lydia, you have to tell them what's really going on" -

"I told you, I can't do that! They can pull me from the showcase."

"Maybe they should!"

"Scott, you can't tell anyone!" she says fiercely. "It'll be fine, please"-

"Fine? Fine?! Lydia, you could barely _breathe_ " -

"It was just a spasm, it happens," she says tightly.

"No, it happens to people who don't take care of themselves! I told you, I _told_ you you were overtraining."

"I'm serious, it's not usually this bad, okay? Please, just... just don't tell Allison."

Scott groans, dropping his head into his hands for a brief second before glaring at her. "That's not fair, you can't ask me to do that."

"She'd just worry about it, she worries about me enough as it is."

"Well she obviously has a good reason to!" he says hotly.

"Scott, she - she did all of this for me, she's been so happy lately, with you and everything, and she and Isaac got this amazing pas de deux... if she knew how bad this was it would ruin everything. I can't do that to her."

"Maybe that isn't your choice," he says softly.

"Did you ever consider that maybe it isn't your secret to tell?"

Scott doesn't say anything for a long time, staring out at the water, forehead wrinkled like he's deep in thought. Eventually he sighs and rubs at his eyes with his fingers, like she's exhausting him. "What about a deal?"

Lydia tilts her head curiously. "What kind of deal?"

"You take the rest of the weekend off from working out and I won't tell Allison what happened."

Her mouth drops open and she turns to Scott in shock. "Are you serious?"

"It's just two days," he says, like two days isn't an eternity. "You need the rest."

"But my first showcase rehearsal is on Tuesday."

"You'll be back in class Monday morning, that's enough time to get ready," Scott says gently.

Her mind spins, she's already deviated from her regular diet and now she has to take two days off from training? She doesn't know if she can do it; she's a rigid person, she has a routine, a schedule, a _goal_. She's so close she can feel it, she just has to stay focused.

She has to stay focused.

"Lydia." Scott's voice is very soft. "Just think about it for a second, okay? I really think you'd feel better if you got a little rest."

"I feel fine now," she says weakly.

"You're not fine," he argues. "You do a good job of hiding it but come on, I'm not stupid Lydia."

It's like falling again, being helpless to stop it, hands grasping at the air. "I have to stretch at least."

"No core work," he counters.

Lydia hesitates. "None?"

"Look me in the eyes right now and tell me you aren't having any problems with your oblique."

She bites her lip and looks away. 

Scott exhales heavily. "Jesus Christ, Lydia."

"It's just a little weak."

"You pull your oblique and you could compromise your whole side, you know that right? How's your psoas?"

"It's okay," she mutters. "Fine, I won't do core."

"I'm serious."

Lydia slumps over, defeated. "I liked you better when you weren't taking AP biology."

Scott holds his hand out to her. "Do we have a deal or not?"

She reluctantly shakes his hand. "Deal."

"Come on." Scott's eyes flick in the direction of the house. "We should go back."

They walk back to the house slowly, Scott's hand hovering over the small of her back the whole way. They go in through the back, Stiles and Allison are in the kitchen laughing about something, standing by the stove.

"Hey," Allison says brightly. "How was your run?"

"I need to take a shower," Lydia mutters, walking right through the kitchen, and runs up the stairs before either of them can get a good look at her face and figure out she was crying.

She locks her bedroom door and flings herself facedown on the bed, her heart hammering in her chest, a residual ache heavy between her ribs. She can feel her face flush with rage at her body's betrayal. She proved Scott right, she's fucking up, she's taking things too far.

She exhales sharply and pushes herself up, whips off her sweatshirt angrily and peels off her top and sports bra. It's not like she has a _choice_ , she has to keep up with everyone else, she doesn't have the luxury of taking time off until her ribs are completely better.

Lydia peels off her leggings and underwear and stomps into the bathroom. She turns the water on hot and climbs into the tub, sits on her ass with her head against her knees for a long time, wondering about Scott, if she can really trust him, if he's downstairs telling Allison every last humiliating detail of what happened right this second.

Lydia sits in the shower until the water runs cold. She climbs out on shaking legs, grabs a towel and wraps it around herself. In the mirror her skin is blotchy and her cheeks are flushed. Lydia sighs and reaches for her makeup bag. She applies a layer of concealer under her eyes, evens out her skin with foundation, and lines her waterline in white liner to brighten up her eyes. She adds a layer of mascara and shiny pink lipgloss, takes her hair out of its ponytail. It's a little damp from the shower, she spritzes it with sea salt spray and scrunches her hair into waves.

She goes back in her room and pulls on a clean thong and a bra. She puts her jeans back on and yanks a floral print [sweatshirt](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533167569896) over her head and sticks her feet in her slippers, slips her phone in her back pocket and goes downstairs.

Scott and Allison are sitting on the couch together in the living room. Her legs are thrown over his lap and she's got her head rested on Scott's shoulder, her eyes shut, a little content smile on her face. His head is tilted down so his cheek is resting on the top of her head. He's talking softly, his hand trailing up and down her arm. Lydia freezes at the bottom of the stairs, unable to look away from such bliss, feeling suddenly sick that she asked Scott to keep something from Allison, taint the purity of their love with her secret.

Scott's eyes flick over to her and Lydia's stomach drops. 

Allison, sitting with her on Brett Talbot's bathroom floor. _You trust Scott, don't you?_

Scott nods slightly at her, his arm tightening protectively around Allison. Lydia drops her head and slinks away into the kitchen, where Stiles is leaning against the counter while something cooks on the stove. He's got a drink in one hand and his phone in the other, staring down at the screen, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. Lydia leans against the doorway, taking a moment to just observe him - the long stretch of his neck, those elegant fingers curled around the glass.

"Hey," Lydia murmurs. "What are you doing?"

His head snaps up and he smiles brilliantly at her. Just like that everything goes away, the guilt, the echo of pain. She's completely captured for a moment, hypnotized by those honey brown eyes. He pockets his phone and walks over to her, the ice in his glass clinking. "Hey, I'm just making dinner. Everyone's drinking, do you want a drink?"

Lydia peers over his shoulder at the liquor bottles spread out over the counter. "Gin and tonic?"

"You got it." He raises his glass at her and walks over to the counter, picks up a clean glass and grabs the bottle of gin.

"Not too strong please," she adds quickly, remembering how that party ended, flat on the bathroom floor crying to Allison, and trails after him.

"Sure." Stiles carefully pours out two shots, adds tonic water and ice, swirls the drink around and hands it to her.

"Thanks." Lydia takes a sip, the drink is cool and crisp. "What're you making?"

"Pasta." Stiles takes a sip of his drink and Lydia idly watches his forearm flex, revealed by the rolled up sleeves of his grey henley. "It's pretty hard to fuck up cooking noodles."

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Do you need any help?"

"Nah, I just have to wait until they're done and heat up the sauce." Stiles leans back up against the counter, one long leg crossed over the other. "But if you're offering I'd take the company."

She can't help but smile a little at that, sipping her drink. She'd almost forgotten this, what it's like to feel wanted like this, when it's sweet and easy, before everything gets intense and ugly and you end up flat on your back with the air knocked out of your body. "Well, since you're cooking and everything..."

Stiles chuckles. "You really think I'd let those two idiots handle dinner? They'd start making out and burn everything."

Lydia smirks in agreement, warmth flooding her stomach as she sips her drink, his body right in front of her and maybe it's because she fell apart in front of Scott earlier, broke down to her most desperate parts, but she finds herself thinking about the night Stiles held her in front of the diner, his hands rubbing up and down her back, how safe he felt. How thrilling it was, illicit almost, to let herself get so close to someone again.

"Hey." Stiles' voice is soft and low. "Are you okay?"

Lydia blinks, suddenly unsure of how long she was standing there, spacing out. "What?"

He reaches out with his free hand and very lightly brushes the inside of her wrist. "You looked a little upset before when you came back with Scott."

Her stomach turns to ice. "Did he say something to you?"

Stiles tilts his head, his fingers circling around her wrist. "No, why?"

"Never mind," she mutters.

"Hey." He sets his drink down on the counter, running his thumb back and forth over her wrist. "What's up with you?"

He says it gently, like he really cares. Lydia bites her lip, her heart beating painfully in her chest, like she's about to confess something awful. "Do you remember that night after you won your lacrosse game?"

"Yeah," he says softly. "Which part?"

She swallows, focusing on the feeling of the cold glass against the palm of her left hand. "Outside the diner. When you said - you said we could be friends. We're friends, right?"

"Lydia," he murmurs and she wants to cry again, just at the way her name sounds when he says it. "Seriously, are you okay?"

"And friends do things for each other, right?" she continues, hating the way her voice trembles.

"Yeah." His eyes are so soft, nothing like Jackson's icy blue ones.

 _He's not Jackson_ , Allison had promised.

"So I - could I..." Lydia shuffles a little closer to him, thinking desperately _just get it_ , ducking her head so he can't read the fear she's sure is displayed all over her face.

"Hey, hey." Stiles' arms come around her like a miracle, like an angel came down and whispered her prayer right into his ear. "Yeah, of course. C'mere."

Lydia squeezes her eyes shut and this time she presses her forehead right into that nook at the base of his neck, his skin warm against hers. One of his arms wraps firmly around the small of her back and the other one comes around her shoulder blades, his hand snaking up the back of her neck to cup her head.

"You can always ask for a hug," he says, so soft, like he's afraid of spooking her. "Friends hug. Just ask Scott, we hug all the time."

Lydia smiles into his shoulder. She melts into the feeling of being contained by his body, shielded from every angle. She can't remember ever feeling this way, like there's safety in another person, like nothing bad could ever happen to her here in his arms.

"Stiles," she murmurs, her lips so close to his skin that she could kiss his throat.

"Yeah?" His voice is shaking a little, like he's just as affected by the intensity of the hug as she is.

"Don't let go," she whispers.

His arms tighten around her and Lydia feels it when he inhales, sharp and quick. "I won't," he whispers back, so serious, his fingers playing idly with her hair. "I won't."


	9. cocktails, cake, and other little catastrophes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to accidentally delete the second half of this chapter TWICE while I was working on it over the weekend so if you're feeling generous please drop me a comment - getting this finished was WAY more difficult than usual and I could use some cheering up! As always, thanks for reading <3

By the time they're finished with dinner Friday night [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529259188903) is getting bombed and everyone else is close behind her. [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533167569896) managed to eat half a bowl of the pasta Stiles cooked along with a big spinach salad, all under Allison's watchful eye. She somehow managed to keep from making any obvious comments about it, a small miracle considering her inebriated state. Lydia's full but not uncomfortably so, sipping a fresh G and T where she's sitting on the arm of the couch next to Allison, Stiles sprawled out in the armchair to her right drinking a Bacardi and Coke.

"We should play a game!" Allison's lying with her back to Scott's chest on the couch, her legs stretched out on the coffee table.

Lydia sips her drink, it's only her second one so she's pleasantly tipsy but not drunk. "What kind of game?"

"Hmm..." Allison grins wickedly. "Never Have I Ever?"

"With two sets of best friends?" Stiles raises an eyebrow at her. "That could get dangerous."

The purpose of Never Have I Ever is ostensibly to learn about who you're playing with while you all slowly get drunk, but when you play with people you know it's more about discovering who has the most dirt on everyone and who is capable of getting everyone else wasted with said dirt. If you know the right questions to ask it becomes easy to take down the other players, turning it more into a game of Who Can Ask the Most Questions That Will Make Everyone Else Have To Drink.

"I'm sure Allison and I can handle it," Lydia says coolly, smirking at Allison.

Scott grins at her. "You think you know more about Allison than I do?"

"I _live_ with her," Lydia reminds him.

"Wait, I know you better than Allison knows you, right?" Stiles suddenly says.

"Well you don't know _everything_ ," Scott says bashfully.

"I wouldn't bet on that," Stiles mutters ominously.

Allison giggles. "Yeah, so everyone in?"

Lydia glances sideways at Stiles, eyebrow raised in question, and he shoots her a wink that should be silly but manages to come off as sexy anyway, or maybe her brain is just warped from that hug - his hand tangled in her hair, her face buried in his throat, the beat of her heart against his. The way he held her so carefully, like she was something precious and fragile, his to protect. How she flushed and looked away when he finally let her go, breaking apart when the timer on his phone for the pasta went off. 

"Yeah, we're in," Lydia confirms. "Does everyone know the rules?"

"The player names something they've never done, whoever _has_ done it has to take a drink," Stiles says.

Lydia nods and glances at Allison. "Do you want to start?"

Allison smiles gleefully. "Sure." She hums thoughtfully, tilting her head back against Scott's shoulder. "Okay, I'll start out easy. Never have I ever had a dog."

Scott and Lydia both take a drink and Allison grins smugly, proud of herself. "Your turn, Scott."

"Okay." Scott grins at Lydia over Allison's head. "Never have I ever gone to boarding school."

Allison starts laughing. "You practically do."

"But he's not a student so technically he's right," Lydia says regretfully. Allison sits up and leans over to clink her glass against Lydia's before they both take a drink.

"Okay, my turn?" Stiles asks, settling back in his chair when everyone nods. "Okay, never have I ever jumped off the roof because I thought I could fly."

"It was your idea!" Scott exclaims, giving Stiles a look of injured betrayal.

Stiles smirks over the rim of his glass. "But you're the one who jumped."

"You _jumped_ off the _roof_?" Allison stares up at Scott, looking bewildered.

"Just the garage," he mumbles bashfully. "It was only one floor up. I just got a little scraped up, it was fine."

Scott rolls his eyes at Stiles but takes his drink. Lydia shifts on the arm of the couch, crossing her legs. "Alright. Never have I ever played lacrosse."

Both boys take a sip and Allison offers her palm to Lydia for a high five. "My turn," Allison says. "Never have I attended a public high school."

"Nice," Lydia praises as the boys both take another drink.

"Never have I ever been to Paris," Scott declares proudly.

Allison groans, Mr. Argent took her and Lydia to Paris for Christmas break last year. They both drink and wait for Stiles to ask his question.

"Okay, I got it." Stiles' eyes glitter in the light. "Never have I ever gotten caught making out in the locker room after a lacrosse game."

Lydia turns to stare at Allison in shock. Allison giggles, blushing, and turns her face into Scott's chest. Scott just tips his glass back with one hand and gives Stiles the finger with the other. Stiles smirks, obviously pleased with himself, while Allison recovers enough to take her drink. "Your turn, Lydia."

She glances between the three of her friends, thinking. She's feeling the second drink now, her stomach heavy and warm, limbs impossibly light. She uncrosses her legs to shake them out before crossing them with the other leg on top this time, perched on the armrest with one hand on the back of the chair Stiles is sitting in for balance. "Alright. Never have I ever had sex with a girl."

Stiles and Scott both glance at each other before grinning and toasting each other, holding their glasses up in the air before they both take a drink. Lydia brushes her hair away from her face self-consciously, suddenly infinitely curious.

Allison shoots Lydia a apologetic sort of grin. "Never have I ever had sex with someone who wasn't Scott."

Lydia sighs in reluctant acceptance and takes a sip, watching Stiles watch her out of the corner of her eye before he takes a drink too. _Sorry,_ Allison mouths. Lydia shrugs, it's not exactly a secret that she isn't a virgin. Not that she and Jackson had a lot of opportunities to have sex, given they live in a dorm where boys and girls aren't allowed in the same room together, plus they both have roommates, which meant most of what happened between them was rushed hookups in Jackson's room, Danny kindly giving them a little time alone, or crammed in the backseat of the Porsche.

Lydia finds herself idly wondering about Stiles' history, the kind of girls he's dated. If they're prettier than she is, or popular, smart, imagines a girl with candy colored lips or shimmery blond hair or a golden California tan writhing in Stiles' arms, being brought to ecstasy by his fingers and tongue. She wonders how he lost his virginity, if it was something sweet and slow and planned, or reckless, rushed maybe, although he doesn't seem like the type. Then again, he's a teenage boy, in Lydia's experience every guy is that type.

"Never have I ever had sex with someone who wasn't Allison," Scott says, and ducks, laughing, when Allison reaches her arm back blindly in a sloppy attempt to affectionately pat his cheek.

"Okay, _no_!" Stiles shouts. "That's - that's just _cheating_ , that's literally the same question, you just changed the name! We get it, okay, you guys love each other, your love is pure and untainted by exes or awkward sexual experiences, but you're _still cheating!_ "

Allison is laughing silently, her face mashed into Scott's chest while Scott just grins cheekily and waits for Stiles to finish his tirade before he says, "It is _so_ a different question. If it was the same question I would've said never have I ever had sex with someone who wasn't me, which is sort of a lie I guess, technically...." Scott trails off, a look of drunken confusion on his face, like his logic has taken him down some sort of dark hole.

Lydia can't help it. She bursts out laughing, covering her face with one hand and holding her glass out to Stiles. "Drink. Just do it."

"Damn," he mutters, but he clinks glasses with her and tosses back some of his rum and Coke. "Fine. Never have I ever been to the ballet."

Lydia, Allison, and Scott all drink. Allison smiles lovingly up at Scott, her cheeks flushed deep pink. "You love The Nutcracker."

"The tree gets _huge!_ " Scott exclaims. "It's so trippy!"

"You have terrible taste in ballet," Lydia tells him, her tongue loose from the alcohol. Every dancer has a soft spot for The Nutcracker of course, but it's too sentimental for Lydia to admit to it.

"The Sugar Plum Fairy's pretty dope." Allison stretches, rubbing her cheek against Scott's tee shirt. "Everyone loves The Nutcracker, it's a classic."

"It's for _children_ ," Lydia argues. 

"It's one of the best ballets of all time!" Allison exclaims. "You know I love that ballet, Lydia. And it's _Tchaikovsky_. _Dun_ da da da _dun_ dun _dun_ dun _dun!_ "

"I know," Lydia concedes. "But it's not like it's Swan Lake."

"Well duh, _nothing_ is like Swan Lake." Allison does the Swan Lake arms, curving her arm up over her head across her face and then peeking out from under it.

Lydia giggles and mimics her, lifting her left arm up over her head and across her face in one fluid motion, and then quickly snaps her head towards Allison, exaggerating the choreography, and Allison bursts out laughing, waving her arms up above her head until her fingers are twining in Scott's hair.

"Okay, why do I get the idea I'm missing something here?" Stiles asks, shooting Lydia a look of absolute bafflement.

"Here, hold my drink." Lydia passes her glass to him and he places it down on the coffee table for her. She lifts her right arm up to meet her left in high fifth, arms straight, pulling up from her core to keep her balance. "Swan arms."

"Swan arms," Stiles repeats. "Uh..."

"It's a ballet thing." Lydia waves her arms from side to side, stretching them up, shoulders rolled back, fingers fluttering a little for fun. "Look, see? I'm a swan."

Stiles grins, his eyes a little glassy. "Yeah, I can see that. Damn, your balance is good."

Lydia smirks and lifts her legs off the couch, extending them straight out in front of her, showing off. "Look Allison, I'm a bird. Say I'm a bird! Say it!"

"You're a bird," Allison giggles.

Lydia curves her arms across her face again. "Now say you're a bird too."

"If you're a bird I'm a bird!" Allison squeals.

Lydia stretches her left leg out to the side and pokes Allison with her toe. "And that is why you're my best friend."

Scott groans loudly. "No Notebook. No more Notebook!"

Lydia stretches her leg out farther, tilting her upper body to the right towards Stiles to maintain her balance as she uses her foot to poke Scott in the center of his chest. "Stop complaining, we only made you watch it one time."

Scott makes a face, catching her by the ankle and gently lowering her leg so it rests on the couch next to Allison. "Once was enough."

Stiles reaches out with his left hand, fingers light against her waist, so Lydia can lean against his hand to keep herself upright. She's not worried about falling like this, if she did there's nowhere for her to land but his lap. "Anyone remember whose turn it is?" he asks.

"It's mine." Lydia drops her arms, reaching down with her right hand to take her drink from Stiles when he offers it, and looks right at Allison. "Never have I ever had sex with Scott," she says, and they both burst into hysterics before Allison drains her glass.

Allison rolls off the couch and holds the empty glass above her head. "I need a refill. Lydia, come with me?"

"Sure." Lydia takes the hand Stiles offers and swings down from the couch, and follows Allison into the kitchen.

Allison walks towards the makeshift bar they have set up on the counter. "Are you having fun? You're having fun, right?"

"Yeah," Lydia admits, her body still warm where Stiles' hand rested on her waist. "Thank you."

Allison shrugs, pouring a shot of rum into her glass and filling it up with Coke. "It's your eighteenth birthday, you deserve to have some fun."

Lydia sips her gin and tonic, waiting patiently for Allison to swirl her drink around and take a sip. "Hey," Allison says. "Don't get up early tomorrow, okay?"

Lydia narrows her eyes at her. "Why not?"

Allison wraps her free arm around Lydia's shoulders. "Just trust me, okay? It's your birthday, I have plans."

Lydia shuts her eyes, swaying in Allison's hold. "Okay."

*

Lydia wakes up at three in the morning, jackknifing out of bed with her head in her hands, crying from a nightmare she's already forgotten. She pulls her knees up to her chest and drops her forehead to them, breathing shakily, her heartbeat thudding in her ears. She stumbles out of bed in a blind panic to retrieve her yoga mat, unrolls it on the floor next to the bed and drops to the ground. She flips over onto her back and bends her knees, feet flat on the floor, and links her hands behind her head. Lydia does basic crunches without counting reps, breathing in for two and out for two until the panic finally recedes, leaving her wrung out and breathless.

Lydia curls over on her side and pushes her forehead flat against the mat. She made a deal with Scott that she wouldn't do any core work and she couldn't even keep her word for one day. Guilt cramps in her stomach, Lydia curls her hands into fists and presses her knuckles into the mat before forcing herself to get up. She tiptoes to the bathroom, turns on the flashlight app on her phone and sets it on the tiled floor, peels off her sweat soaked clothes and takes a cold shower.

She's shivering when she gets out, she dries off and shuffles back to the bedroom, grabs a pair of boy shorts and a long sleeve pajama top from the pile of clothes stacked on the top of her duffle and yanks them on. She turns off the flashlight app and puts her phone down on the nightstand, gets under the covers and curls up in the fetal position, shivering in the dark until she finally falls back asleep.

When she wakes up again sunlight is coming in through the window and [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529458597149) is crawling up the bed, sliding under the covers and curling up against her side. "Happy Birthday," she whispers, and kisses Lydia's cheek.

Lydia flips over on her back. "What time is it?"

Allison yawns. "A little after nine."

"Did you set an alarm just to wake me up?"

"Shh, go back to sleep. It's not ready yet."

"What's not?"

"You'll see." Allison snuggles closer to her and Lydia sighs but shuts her eyes obediently. To her surprise she actually does go back to sleep, drifting off under the warm weight of Allison's arm wrapped around her middle. She wakes up an hour later to Allison's phone buzzing with a text. Allison rolls over and snatches up her phone, squinting at the screen to read the text. "Okay, time to get up," she announces.

Lydia yawn, reaching for her hair brush on the nightstand. "What's the plan?"

"For now, pajama breakfast, so put on some pants and you're good."

Lydia flips her head upside down to whip her brush through her hair. "I want to wash my face first."

Allison fluffs her hair with one hand and stretches out on the bed. "Sure."

Lydia walks over to her duffle and pulls out a pair of grey [joggers](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529458641776) and steps into them, yanks her slippers on and goes into the bathroom. She brushes her teeth and washes her face, applies tinted moisturizer and dabs on a little concealer under her eyes. She curls her eyelashes and examines her face in the mirror, combs her eyebrows with tinted brow gel before going back out to the bedroom.

Allison's exactly where she left her, bending down to stick her feet into her slippers. "Ready?"

Lydia grabs her phone and nods. Allison smiles and holds out her hand, Lydia takes it and follows Allison downstairs to the kitchen, nervous anticipation fluttering in her chest like when she'd creep downstairs on Christmas morning as a kid. Scott and Stiles are both sitting at the kitchen table wearing matching Beacon Hills lacrosse sweatshirts and flannel pajama pants like Allison, talking quietly while Stiles pours coffee from the French press into a mug. There're plates of food on one end of the table and in the center there are a stack of wrapped presents of varying sizes.

"Hey, it's the birthday girl!" Stiles jumps up from his chair when Lydia comes in with Allison, beaming at them. He picks up the mug of coffee he just poured and crosses the room to her, pressing it into her hands. "Happy Birthday, here, I made coffee."

"What else could a girl want?" Lydia accepts both the mug and the hug he offers her, dropping her head down to his chest for a brief moment before pulling away.

"Come sit down, we made breakfast." Stiles slings his arm casually across her shoulders and leads her over to the table. Allison follows them, walking around to the other side of the table and dropping down into a chair next to Scott as Lydia sits down in front of the stack of gifts.

"Okay!" Stiles hovers behind Lydia's chair, gesturing to the spread of food to her left. "We have blueberries, we have scrambled eggs, we have banana pancakes, and we have presents, what do you want first?"

Lydia tilts her head back to smile up at him. "Presents of course."

Stiles smiles back at her and for a split second time stops. Lydia stares up at him, hypnotized by those golden eyes framed by long curly lashes, his cute upturned nose. His hands come down to her shoulders and Lydia swears for one crazy moment that he's going to kiss her and she's frozen, waiting for it, fingers curled tightly around her mug.

"Good choice," he says, and moves away, vanishing from her eye line for a second as he sits down next to her.

Allison leans up on her elbows and starts sifting through the pile of gifts before selecting a small wrapped box with a little bow on the top. "Here, this is from your mom."

Lydia carefully tears the paper open to reveal a blood red velvet jewelry box. She opens it up and gasps when she sees what's inside - a pair of Chanel earrings, little silver interlocking C's glittering with tiny embedded crystals. Lydia holds the box out to Allison, who lets out a little sigh of delight, tracing the earrings with one finger before taking the box from Lydia and setting it down on the table.

"Here," Allison says, handing Lydia a wide flat box wrapped in purple polka dot wrapping paper. "This one's from me."

Lydia unwraps the paper, lifting an eyebrow curiously at the white cardboard box before slicing open the tape with her fingernail and lifting the lid, revealing a pile of clothing. Allison's gotten her an Alo [set](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529458682703), a pair of blush pink goddess leggings and a matching pullover. Lydia touches the fabric reverently before leaning over and hugging Allison over the table. "I love it, thank you."

"Happy Birthday." Allison grins happily and hands her another box, thick and square, wrapped in blue checked paper. "This one's from Scott."

Lydia glances at him in surprise, he didn't have to get her anything. She remembers suddenly, getting up in the middle of the night in a panic, desperately working out on the floor in the dark until she calmed down. Lydia drops her head in shame, her hair falling in front of her face. She unwraps the gift in silence, everyone's attention on her suddenly stifling. It's a book, Dance Anatomy. Lydia flips through it, it's filled with beautiful detailed illustrations and exercises designed to promote injury prevention, proper alignment, and better placement. It's exactly what she'd expect from Scott, something thoughtful and useful.

"Thanks Scott," she says earnestly, catching his gaze. Scott smiles softly at her and nods, leans over the table to give her a chaste kiss on the cheek.

"Okay, last one," Stiles says cheerfully, and bends underneath the table to retrieve a large box with a huge red bow on the top.

Lydia stares at the box, wondering what he could've possibly gotten her that requires such large packaging. She must have a baffled look on her face because Stiles laughs and squeezes her shoulder. "It's not as crazy as it looks, just open it."

She shoots him a doubtful look but she pulls the lid off the box, standing up from her chair to look inside. She has to sort through a pile of pale pink tissue paper before she finds a pile of individually wrapped gifts buried at the bottom. Lydia bites her lip, lifting out each present until she has five presents of variable sizes lined up in front of her. She picks up the first one, a soft tube shaped lump wrapped in shiny silver paper.

"Um, I kind of had to ask Allison for some help," Stiles admits as she slits open the wrapping paper. "I didn't know what to get you."

"I just helped with the details," Allison says graciously.

Lydia pulls the paper off; it's a pair of patterned Toesox in her size. "Cute," she murmurs, shooting a grateful glance at Allison before unwrapping a similar shaped package, a complimenting pair of blue, red and cream patterned leg warmers. The third gift makes her laugh out loud in surprise, it's an adult coloring book with a mermaid on the cover and a pack of gel pens.

"You got me a coloring book?" she asks him, running her fingers along the edge.

Stiles nods, looking a little sheepish. "Allison said you liked mermaids when you were a kid and you're so busy with dance and the showcase stuff I thought maybe you could use something to relax? I don't know, maybe it's stupid" -

"It's not stupid." Lydia reaches out with her left hand and curls her fingers around his wrist. "I'll need something to do during tech anyway, this is perfect."

Allison groans at the mention of tech. "Only in dance shows do they have a different lighting cue literally every two seconds."

Lydia takes a sip of the coffee Stiles made her. He must have put creamer in the bottom of the mug before he poured it because it's perfect, strong and milky sweet. She puts down the coffee to pick up a flat square gift she thinks is a book. She's right, it's a book titled Women in Science, an anthology of profiles of fifty different women who achieved greatness in science. Lydia glances sideways at Stiles, amazed that somehow he knew she would love this, and he does that stupid sexy wink again and takes the book from her, stacking it on top of the anatomy book, and hands her the last gift.

It's a thin rectangular package, Lydia rips open the paper and takes out a wall print. It's a Degas, A Study of a Dancer. A young girl in a blue tutu with a big blue bow in the back, red hair up in a bun to reveal her white neck, hands folded at the small of her back, feet turned out in a narrow second. Lydia traces over the print lovingly. How Degas loved his ballerinas.

She turns to Stiles and finds that the words are stuck in her throat so she hugs him instead, hiding her face in his neck, smiling when his arms come around her. "Do you like it?" he whispers.

She nods, reaching up to fix her hair before pulling away. "Thank you. It's" - Lydia turns to Allison, who looks extremely pleased with herself. "It's perfect." 

They all eat breakfast at a languid pace, Lydia sticks with eggs and blueberries but she manages to take a bite of Allison's pancake when she offers and it's almost worth it for the way Allison looks at her, like everything is perfect right now and who is Lydia to ruin it by refusing to eat any carbohydrates? Besides, it's her birthday. She's celebrating.

Eventually, after they've been sitting around for over an hour finishing off the coffee, Allison stretches her arms up above her head and smiles at Lydia. "Come on, time to get dressed."

Lydia finishes the last of her coffee and wipes her mouth with her napkin. "For what?"

"Girl time." Allison runs her fingers through Scott's hair and stands up. "Jeans are fine, we're not going anywhere too fancy."

Lydia shrugs and follows Allison upstairs. Allison heads to the room she's sharing with Scott to change and Lydia goes into her room, locking the door behind her. The first thing she does is roll up the yoga mat she's left on the floor, berating herself for being so sloppy. It's one thing to secretly workout when she told Scott she wouldn't but it's another thing to leave the evidence in plain sight. She's acting like she _wants_ to be caught, she's supposed to be smarter than this.

Lydia peels her clothes off and takes a quick shower, stands wrapped in a towel in front of the mirror when she gets out to curl her hair. She puts on a little more makeup, blush, mascara, and lip gloss. She puts in the earrings her mother got her and pushes her hair back from her ears so she can really see them before taking a picture and texting it to her mom along with a heart emoji. 

Allison said jeans so Lydia changes into the one pair she brought and pulls on one the [tops](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529458791559) Allison packed for her, a lilac vee neck edged with lace trim. Lydia puts on her Chloe flats, grabs her black cross body bag, and goes back downstairs.

Allison's waiting for her in the living room on the couch with Scott, wearing jeans and a heart printed [sweater](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529458862909), boots on her feet and her jacket folded across her lap. "Ready?"

Lydia frowns suddenly, grabbing her jacket from where it's slung over the armchair. "Wait, how are we getting to wherever we're going?"

Allison smiles and shrugs into her jacket. "Oh it's taken care of." She leans over to kiss Scott goodbye and gets off the couch. "Come on."

Lydia waves goodbye to Scott and follows Allison outside. Stiles is waiting for them by the Jeep, his hair damp from a shower, wearing jeans and a grey hoody half unzipped to reveal a bright blue tee shirt underneath.

"Ladies!" Stiles calls out, walking over to Lydia and taking her elbow to lead her around to the passenger side of the Jeep. "Welcome to Stilinski Transportations, please keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times."

Lydia hops up into the passenger seat while Allison gets in the back, and Stiles shuts her door before jogging around to the driver's side and starting the Jeep. He and Allison must have already worked this out because he drives them to downtown Beacon Hills without any instructions and drops them off in front of a small upscale restaurant Lydia's been to a few times with her mother. For some reason it aches a little to say goodbye, watching from the sidewalk as the Jeep drives away.

They eat at a table in a corner next to the window. Allison doesn't say anything when Lydia orders a salad for lunch, doesn't even flinch when she requests dressing on the side. Allison gets a burger and fries, drenching her plate with ketchup when it comes. Lydia tightens her fingers around her fork, it looks like everything Allison is eating is drenched in blood. Lydia looks down at the deep green of her salad and spears a cube of tofu, tapping the fingers of her right hand against her thigh in a steady ten count as she eats.

Allison pays for lunch with her dad's credit card and they walk around the corner to a nail salon, where Allison has made appointments for mani/pedis. They go over to the wall and start selecting bottles of polish, comparing shades of pinks and purples.

"You're spoiling me," Lydia comments, selecting her usual bottle of Essie's Ballet Slippers for her fingers and looking at the bottles of reds for her toes.

"It's your birthday and this is probably the most free time we'll have until after the showcase, we have to take advantage." Allison grabs a bottle of plum polish for herself and holds out a cherry red color towards Lydia. "You want this?"

"Perfect, thanks." Lydia takes the bottle and they follow the manicurist to the pedicure station, sitting down in massage chairs and taking off their shoes to stick their feet in the tubs of hot water. "I can't remember the last time I had a pedicure," Lydia admits.

"I can," Allison says wryly. "My pinky toenail fell off, the manicurist almost cried."

"I hate that," Lydia commiserates. It's almost pointless to get her toes done, they'll be ruined by the end of the week. She turns the massage chair on and sighs, messing around with the remote until she gets it to a comfortable setting.

"So." Allison leans her head back against her chair. "How're things going with you and Stiles?"

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Same as they've been. We're friends."

"Just friends?"

"Yes, just friends," she says patiently.

Allison hums lightly. "He sure got you a lot of presents for just a friend."

"I heard you were partially responsible for that."

"Oh come on," Allison laughs. "I had to reel him back, like a _lot_. The guy's crazy for you Lydia, just admit it."

"Look, it's - complicated okay?"

"But you like him," Allison insists. "And he likes you."

"And we don't go to the same school and showcase rehearsals start next week and now is really not the time to start a relationship. We'd never even see each other."

Allison raises an eyebrow. "You've been managing so far."

"Yeah, because we're friends."

Allison pouts. "I just want you to be happy."

"I _am_ happy," Lydia insists.

Allison bites her lip and looks away.

"What?" Lydia asks warily.

Allison blinks rapidly and shoots her a shiny plastic smile. "Nothing."

"Allison."

"It's nothing, really. If you say you're happy then you're happy," Allison says, and slides her sunglasses over her face, like, _conversation over_.

*

Stiles picks them up late in the afternoon in front of a tea shop. The car smells amazing, when Lydia twists around in the passenger seat there's a big paper bag on the seat next to Allison with a grocery store logo on it.

"No peeking." Stiles takes his right hand off the wheel and catches her chin for a brief second to very gently tilt her head towards the front. "Turn around please."

Lydia meets Allison's gaze in the mirror of her visor. "Okay, how many surprises do you have left?"

Allison grins. "I can't tell you, that would ruin it."

When they get back to the lake house Allison gets out of the backseat and takes the grocery bag, setting it down on the driveway. "Do you have it?" she asks Stiles.

"Yeah." To Lydia's surprise he reaches into his pocket and takes out a blindfold, turning towards Lydia. "Like she said, we don't want to ruin the surprise, right?"

Lydia shoots an apprehensive glance at Allison but she allows Stiles to blindfold her, standing nervously on the blacktop as he ties it around her head. Warm fingers curl around her hand and Lydia jumps a little, her shoulder bumping into Stiles.

"It's okay," he reassures her. "I've got you." He leads her up what she assumes is the path to the house, stepping up when he tells her to, the ground shifting to hardwood under her feet.

"Okay, keep going straight," he instructs. She clutches his hand tightly and takes small shuffling steps, stopping when she feels her toes bump up against something.

"Step up." Stiles' voice is soft and low in her ear and Lydia obeys, slowly going up the stairs with him, leaning to the side a little so she can feel him next to her, steady and solid.

"Almost there, you got it." Stiles pulls her up the top step and leads her down the hallway. "Okay, I can take that off you now."

She feels his hands go into her hair and then the blindfold falls away, revealing the hallway and Allison standing behind Stiles, looking excited. "Come on, time to get dressed," Allison says, and pulls Lydia into her room.

There are two dresses laid out in the bed, Allison goes over to pick one up and holds it out towards her. "What do you think? It should fit you, yeah?"

Lydia takes the [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529458908504) from Allison, examining it carefully. It's pale pink chiffon, the entire bodice embroidered with flowers. "Yeah, this looks good, it's really pretty." She smiles at Allison, tracing over the flowers with one finger. "What about you?"

Allison holds up a midnight blue velvet slip [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529458995910) and Lydia coos appropriately. They change into the dresses with the familiar comfort of all those years of living together; they know each other's bodies as well as they know their own. Allison comes into the bathroom with Lydia and uses her curling iron while Lydia braids the front pieces of her hair back around her head, leaving the rest of her curls hanging down her back. She does a nice cat eye with an eyeliner pen while Allison puts on lipstick and the little silver arrow necklace Scott got her for their last anniversary.

"Aren't you glad I made you pack heels now?" Allison asks as she follows Lydia out of the bathroom.

Lydia sinks down on the edge of the bed to put on her gold sandals. "I didn't know what you had planned then."

Allison buckles the straps of her metallic black sandals and reaches for Lydia's hand to help her off the bed. "Come on, party time."

Lydia follows Allison out of the room and down the stairs, stopping at the bottom with a gasp. The living room is filled with balloons floating in the air and streamers are hanging from the rafters. Above the kitchen doorway a giant glittery _Happy Birthday!_ sign has been hung, Scott and Stiles are standing under it holding two glasses of champagne each, wearing jeans and button downs. Allison leads Lydia over to them and Stiles holds out a glass of champagne to Lydia, offering her his elbow as she takes the drink from him.

"You look beautiful," he says softly and she freezes, staring up at him

"Really?" she murmurs.

"Yeah," he replies.

She can't help but smile then, and links her arm in his, Scott and Allison following behind them. Stiles walks her over to the kitchen table and pulls out her chair for her. The table is set up buffet style - there's a big salad of mixed greens, grilled chicken breasts, roasted potatoes, and dinner rolls. Lydia waits while everyone fills their plates, clutching her glass, before taking a large helping of salad and a single chicken breast.

"Here, the potatoes are amazing, try some." Allison drops three potato wedges onto her plate before Lydia can say no.

Lydia sighs and takes a large sip of champagne before starting on her salad. Stiles refills their glasses halfway through and it's enough to make her brave, she sticks her fork in one of the potatoes and tries it - Allison's right, it's amazing. Lydia chews slowly, savoring the flavor, before swallowing and draining her water glass. She manages to finish most of what's on her plate and returns to her champagne, her head feeling lighter and lighter as she drinks. Allison and Scott insist on clearing the table so Lydia sits there with Stiles, his glass dangling from his fingertips.

"Hey," she murmurs. "You didn't have to do all this."

He just smiles softly, brushing over the back of her hand with his fingertips. "It's your birthday. Birthdays are supposed to be special."

 _Special_. She used to be special, before she got hurt, back when she was Jackson's girlfriend and one of the most promising dancers at school. Now she's on her last chance, special because she's been chosen by Peter Hale. Everything hangs on her performance in the showcase, she's only special if she can prove he was right in casting her. _Special_ means being a prima, a star. Anything less than that would be meaningless.

"Thank you," she whispers, turning her head to the side.

He's right there and it happens again, that moment where Lydia is _sure_ this is it, he's going to kiss her, but then Scott and Allison are back singing _Happy Birthday_ and holding, _for fuck's sake_ , a birthday cake, white icing with a pair of pink frosted pointe shoes and flickering blue candles. Scott places the cake down on the table in front of her and Lydia gets up from her chair as Allison gathers her curls in her hands so they can't fall forward into the flames and catch fire.

"Make a wish," Allison instructs.

Lydia closes her eyes and takes a deep breath to focus. She thinks about her name on the casting sheet, Peter Hale, the showcase. Standing up onstage, dancing to a full house, becoming a prima. Everything she's ever dreamed about.

She holds onto it, focusing on the vision, and blows out the candles as she makes her wish: _Let me be a star_.

*

After they've finished the cake (Lydia's piece barely, surreptitiously eaten, most of it mashed to bits with her fork, white frosting roses hidden in her napkin) they all drift to the living room and Allison plays music on her phone, hooking it up to the tv speakers. They're all drunk on champagne and Lydia feels like the bubbles are rising up inside her, the lights refracting into a million twinkling stars as she spins in a circle, the skirt of her dress flying up around her knees.

"So you do dance for fun," Stiles observes next to her, bopping back and forth in an awkward yet adorable sort of way, like he's listening to a rhythm only he can hear.

"On occasion." Lydia smirks, catching his hand to sway back and forth.

Stiles' eyes shine like the lights. "So when am I gonna see you dance?"

"I am dancing."

"You know what I mean. _Dance_ dance."

"Oh, you want to see me dance?" Lydia takes a step back. "Right now okay?"

His eyes widen, like he can't believe that it was that easy. "Only if you want to."

"Allison!" Lydia shouts, walking over to the couch to take off her heels. "Give me some Tchaikovsky, I want to dance."

"Oooooo, okay!" Allison picks up her phone and taps it and the pop music cuts out. A few seconds later the familiar opening of The Nutcracker starts, _dun da da da dun dun dun da dun!_ and Lydia shrieks with laughter, rolling off the couch.

"Sorry, sorry!" Allison hits her phone frantically and the music switches to the opening chords of Swan Lake. "Scott, help me with the table?"

They push the coffee table up against the couch and Scott steps over it to sink down into the cushions, pulling Allison into his lap. Lydia nods at Stiles and he walks over to sit down next to Scott, watching Lydia like he's already riveted. She walks around her makeshift stage, fluttering her arms before stepping into fifth, taking a moment to pause and get settled before she begins.

The music vibrates up from the floor into the bottoms of her feet and Lydia lets it take her up to demi pointe, lifting her heels off the floor as she raises her arms above her head. She does a few balancés, shifting back and forth, before stepping out with her right foot to do a few chaîné turns. She steps back and does a double pirouette, Lydia lands in forth position and lifts her right leg off the floor straight in front of her before shifting quickly to her left and lifting her leg all the way up in arabesque. She holds it for a moment and then collapses, lowering her leg as she curls over and then jumps straight up into the air for a split jump, pointing her legs in opposite directions. She lands and springs right back up again, does a few jumps with beats just for fun. She comes down and sways to the side before finishing with a triple pirouette and falls into a dramatic curtsy.

"Brava, brava!" Scott and Allison shout, standing up from the couch to clap for her, but Stiles -

Stiles is sitting right at the edge of the couch, staring at her with an expression that makes Lydia feel like she's floating - he's looking at her like he's just had some kind of spiritual experience, like he's been shaken to his core. Like he's been transformed somehow.

Allison walks over to her phone and switches the music to an R&B mix, better for a party. She and Scott start to dance, slow and smooth, rocking their hips together as Lydia walks on tiptoes over to Stiles and sinks down on the couch next to him.

"So?" she says, because he still looks dumbstruck. "Have we converted you to a ballet lover by now?"

Stiles shakes his head faintly. "That was - you're incredible. You're amazing, you know that right?"

She's too drunk to play coy; she smiles like a stupid little girl, stars in her eyes, champagne in her belly. "Really?"

"Lydia." His voice sounds strained. "Really."

She breaks into a smile, ducking her head shyly. "Thank you."

"You wanna dance?" he asks, and when she looks up he's got that look in his eye still - like Lydia is something magical, something awe-inspiring, like he can't believe she's sitting here, right in front of him.

"Yeah," she whispers, and takes his hand. "Okay."

They get up and dance along with Scott and Allison. They're all drunk on champagne and everything soon devolves into swaying around the room, tossing balloons at each other, being drunken idiots because they're young and beautiful and _it's Spring Break baby!_ Allison screams, drinking straight from the bottle. By midnight they somehow all make it up the stairs in one piece, when they've finished all the champagne and no one is capable of dancing anymore, all of them worn out and sleepy and sated. Lydia drags her feet against the second floor hallway carpet, flinging her arms around Allison to wordlessly say goodnight.

Allison runs her fingers through Lydia's curls and gives her a bleary smile. "I love you."

Lydia kisses her cheek and squeezes Allison before she lets her go. "I love you too."

"Night guys." Scott manages a wave before Allison takes his hand and they disappear into their room, the door gently clicking shut behind them.

"So," Stiles says, leaning up against the wall next to her. "Back to real life tomorrow."

"Yeah," she sighs ruefully.

He smiles and she's so drunk she could cry at the sight of it. "I had a really good time this weekend," he says. "Thanks for letting me and Scott crash your party."

She blinks up at him through her eyelashes. "Thanks for coming."

He looks down at her and it's so obvious, she can feel it - this is the part where they kiss. There's nothing left but them, their mutual connection, their chemistry - she's seen enough movies to at least know this, that moment where words run out and you start talking with your body instead.

Does she _want_ him to kiss her?

Of course, she thinks. He shines like a star and she's going to be one someday, of course they'd be drawn together by their mutual luminosity. But then she remembers that kissing leads to relationships and sex and staying up until four in the morning screaming at each other and if you aren't careful you end up a broken doll on the floor that he won't glue back together because you're broken and he doesn't want you anymore.

Stiles swoops in and kisses her cheek before pulling away quickly, a delighted little smile on his face. "Happy Birthday, goodnight!" he exclaims. "See you in the morning."

Lydia stands there in the hallway, stunned, barely managing to whisper _Goodnight_ back to him as he walks down to his room and goes inside, smiling cheekily back at her before shutting his door, leaving her there frozen in shock.

Lydia blinks heavily and lets herself inside her room, one hand floating up to her cheek, still warm where his lips brushed her skin, so fast and fleeting it was almost like a dream.


	10. what it takes to be a star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all more than Stiles loves curly fries, reading your comments is always the bright spot of my week <3

The mood is subdued on Sunday afternoon when Stiles drops [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533168117041) and [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533168273205) back at HSB. Lydia waits on the sidewalk, watching Stiles unload all their bags from the trunk of the Jeep. Scott and Allison are saying goodbye, kissing slow and sweet right out in the open against the low stone wall that lines the curb. Lydia shifts her feet back and forth, giving Stiles a tight smile as he carries her bags over to her.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, looking down, her eyes stuck on the sidewalk.

They haven't talked about yesterday, the almost kiss, all the hugging, any of it. They're all a little hungover and hitting a Sunday afternoon low after the high of yesterday, they spent most of the day at the lake house cleaning up the house and packing. It already feels like a dream, like for a few days she got to be someone else, a girl who smiled and laughed and flirted and enjoyed herself, and now she's back to reality - Lydia has work to do, she has to focus, she doesn't have time to waste on boys.

But then Lydia makes the mistake of looking up and Stiles is staring down at her. It happens again, time slowing to a stop, the world narrowing down to his face in front of her, warm golden eyes she can't look away from. She remembers that first night, standing exactly on this spot and exchanging secret smiles with him while Scott and Allison kissed and how she'd idly daydreamed about him, before she got to know him, before he was a real person. 

Before he touched her and something in her body woke up deep inside, something she thought was dead and frozen began to thaw and unfold. Something she didn't know she was capable of feeling that scares and thrills her in equal measure.

How is she supposed to give that up when she doesn't even understand it yet?

He smiles at her, kind of wistful, like he's feeling as conflicted as she is. “So I guess I'll just, uh, see you when I see you?”

She nods, unable to hold eye contact, feeling terribly torn in two directions - school, ballet, her dream, and Stiles, a boy, someone who looks at her like she's more than a dancer, more than just another girl with stars in her eyes. Like she's _special_. “I start showcase rehearsals this week, so I'm probably going to be pretty busy.”

“Right.” He chews on his bottom lip, fingers tapping against his side. “Are you staying at your mom's this weekend?”

“I always stay there on the weekends.” Lydia rolls her eyes. “Otherwise she'd never really see me and she'd probably lose her mind.”

Stiles laughs dryly. “Yeah, I can relate to that. Only child responsibilities.”

“Right.” Lydia glances at Scott and Allison; they've stopped kissing but they're still locked in an embrace, their foreheads pressed together, like they can't bear to be physically separated.

Lydia can't help but think about it, how happy Allison's been this year, how Scott makes her best friend glow like she's lit from within. And Allison's still doing well in school, she's not as dedicated as Lydia but no one works as hard as Lydia except for maybe Cora. But Allison got an amazing role in the showcase anyway, her dancing hasn't suffered because she spends her free time making out with Scott McCall instead of working out for hours every night.

 _Aren't you lonely?_ Allison had asked.

Is that all it is? Is Lydia just touch-starved, broken from her last breakup and falling for the first boy to explicitly express interest in her?

Stiles suddenly reaches out, catching her wrist with his fingers and Lydia jolts, turning back to him reflexively, and as soon as their eyes meet she knows that it's nothing like that, if she just wanted _someone_ , a warm body, she would've gone to Aiden.

Aiden doesn't make her feel like this - exposed, caught, like her entire facade is nothing but a shiny clear sheet of plastic.

Stiles makes her feel _seen_. Like she's more than a pretty face or a nice body or even a ballerina.

When she's with him she feels like she's real.

“So, maybe I'll see you this weekend then?” Stiles asks hesitantly. “If you're around?” 

“Maybe Saturday,” she blurts out, before she can stop herself. “I don't have rehearsal on Saturdays.”

His fingers are still curled around her wrist, stroking back and forth. It's hypnotic, the soft sweep of callused fingertips tracing patterns over her skin. “Okay, I'll text you, maybe we could get dinner or hang out or whatever you want to do”-

“Stiles.”

He blinks. “Right, sorry, we're not. I just meant, you know, hang out as friends, cus that's what we are, right? And friends hang out, I mean, only if you're not busy, which I would totally understand if you are, I know you have a crazy schedule and everything”-

Lydia can't take it anymore, she rises up on her tiptoes and throws her arms around his neck to hug him. Mostly because she wants him to stop talking but also so she can have it one last time - his arms around her, his warmth, one safe place where she can just _be_.

Stiles jerks a little in surprise, his arms coming around her just like she hoped they would. “So is that a yes to hanging out, or...?”

“Saturday,” she repeats, softer this time. “Text me. I still have to train but I'll let you know if I'm free.”

“Okay.” He nods vigorously. “I can do that, I can definitely do that.”

She can't explain why she does it, it just happens, it just _feels right_ \- she turns her face and plants a quick kiss on his cheek. When she pulls away Stiles is staring at her, dumbfounded. He blinks, eyes a little wider than usual. “What was that for?”

Lydia watches Scott and Allison start walking over to them out of the corner of her eye. “You know what it was for.”

He gives her that soft look, the one that makes her want to melt, open herself up and let him stick his hands inside where she's soft and fleshy and vulnerable. “Lydia…”

“Hey,” Allison calls out, sounding listless, leaning up against Scott. “I guess we have to go in now.”

“Yeah,” Lydia reluctantly agrees. 

Allison kisses Scott one more time, pouting when he breaks away to hand over her bags. She hikes them up on her shoulder and walks over to Lydia, a muscle in her jaw twitching. “Okay, I'm ready.”

Lydia clutches her yoga mat against the sudden tight feeling in her chest, like she needs to cry. “So,” she says to Stiles. “I'll see you later?”

“Yeah,” he says, and mouths _Saturday?_ like it's a secret.

She nods and shoots him a little private smile, tucking her hair behind her ear. Allison moans dramatically and slings her arm over Lydia's shoulders. “Do we _have_ to go in?” Allison groans dramatically. “I'm not ready for school to start.”

“All good things must come to an end,” Lydia reminds her.

“Ugh, fine, I guess you're right. Bye guys,” Allison says morosely, waving at the boys with one limp hand.

Lydia rolls her eyes at Allison's antics. “We'll see you later.”

“Wait!” Allison rushes forward and kisses Scott desperately one more time before walking back to Lydia. “Okay, I'm ready.”

She and Allison stand on the sidewalk, watching Scott and Stiles wave goodbye and turn around to walk back to the Jeep. Allison sighs heavily, dropping her head to Lydia's shoulder. Lydia slings her arm around Allison's waist and squeezes. “You'll see him tomorrow.”

“I know,” Allison mumbles. “But it's not the same.”

“Allison, you just spent three days with him.”

Allison sighs heavily as the Jeep drives away and turns around with Lydia to head inside. “I miss him already,” she confesses. “I feel like I can't even breathe sometimes until I see him, you know?”

“No,” Lydia says shortly, and strides forward to pull open the glass front doors to go inside.

*

Her first showcase rehearsal is on Tuesday night in one of the practice studios in the basement. [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533168416250) meets Aiden in the gym half an hour before their rehearsal starts so they can warm up together. They set up at the barre installed along the far wall below the windows; they both face the barre and start with relevés, slowly rising up on the balls of their feet and then bending their knees to roll back down, lowering their heels back on the floor and repeating the exercise for a few minutes. Lydia leads them through a quick plié series in first, second and fifth followed by tendus, then dégagés. They do leg swings with one arm on the barre, sweeping their working leg front and back, knee bent, warming up their legs and hips.

Aiden wants to jump so Lydia follows him over to the mat against the back wall of the gym; she does small changements next to him, alternating feet in fifth position. She's starting to feel the nerves kick in as she jumps, Lydia shakes her arms out when she comes down and does a few more leg swings before glancing at the clock.

"Time to go," she says.

Aiden nods, wiping his hands on the hem of his white tee shirt, waiting while Lydia runs back to her bag and quickly ties one of her practice skirts around her waist before slinging her bag over her shoulder. Aiden reaches his hand out to her and she takes it as they walk out of the gym, drawing comfort from the solid strength of his body. He doesn't look nervous but that's Aiden, cool and confident, Lydia's never seen him be anything less than self-assured. It's that Alpha training, the unshakable belief that he can handle himself in any situation. Lydia's envious - all she can think about is Laura Hale, that one last brilliant performance before she took her own life and almost took down the rest of the Hales with her, Laura the star, the last girl to dance Peter Hale's choreography.

Until Lydia.

Peter is waiting for them in the practice studio down the hall, wearing jeans again and a black vee neck, standing by a single chair placed in front of the mirror. “Children!” he says cheerfully, waving them over as he spins the chair around and sits down. “Come, come, sit. We have much to discuss.”

Aiden and Lydia both drop their gym bags in the corner of the studio, Lydia taking an extra second to peel off her socks and stuff them in her bag. They scurry over to him, sitting down on the floor at his feet like they're literally children at story time, staring up at Peter like he's about to tell them the most fascinating story they've ever heard. 

“So.” Peter crosses one ankle across the opposite thigh and drops his hands into his lap with a clap. “Little Red and the Wolf. I assume you're both familiar with the fairy tale?”

Lydia and Aiden nod, they hung out in the fourth floor common room yesterday after dinner to watch some of Peter's work online; a lot of his choreography is based on fairy tales and myths, the darker the better. They even watched the pas de deux of Little Red and the Wolf from The Sleeping Beauty as a reference, although the choreography was less than thrilling.

“Wonderful.” He gazes down at them, his bright blue eyes piercing, and Lydia has to hold back a shiver.

She almost can't believe she's here, inches away from one of the most influential choreographers in the world of ballet. She's already enraptured, just at the sound of his voice and the intensity of his eyes, and they haven't even started working yet.

“So, here we are. Little Red and her wolf. Of course, our story is going to end a little differently.” Peter smiles slyly. “Our wolf is clever, seductive. He can offer poor sheltered Red an entire world she's never experienced - danger, excitement. Passion.”

Lydia and Aiden exchange a quick, excited glance. It's exactly what they were hoping for - mature, subversive, maybe even a little controversial depending on the choreography. It's classic Peter, a concept designed to thrill the audience.

“I don't have choreography for you today,” Peter says. “I want to see you dance for me again first. I need to see the way you move together beyond the adorable little pas de deux my nephew gave you to perform.”

Lydia blinks up at him, mind reeling, trying to think of a good variation they've done in partnering that they could show him. Aiden tilts his head curiously, obviously intrigued. “What would you like to see? Lydia and I can do anything.”

Peter strokes his chin, looking amused. “Why don't you make something up for me.”

“You want us to improv for you?” Lydia blurts out, surprised. It's something dancers have to know how to do of course, occasionally a choreographer will give a few counts for improvisation but she's never been told to do this before.

“Yes, darling, I would like to see the way you work together before I give you choreography.” Peter slides his phone out of his jeans pocket and bends down to hook it up to the speakers. “Can you do that for me?”

“Of course we can.” Aiden grabs Lydia's hand and helps her stand up. “Lydia and I can do anything.”

“I suppose we'll see about that, won't we?” Peter says lightly. 

Lydia moves to grab her pointe shoes from her bag but before she can get far, like he can read the intention in her body, Peter says, “Bare feet is fine for today. This isn't about technique, if you didn't have that you wouldn't be here. I want you to move me. Make me _feel_ something. Passion. Desire. Chemistry. _Something_.”

Lydia and Aiden both nod like puppets, silent and obedient. It's their job to give him what he wants, whatever that may be.

“I'll give you a few minutes to prepare while I select music.” Peter stands up, phone in hand, and begins to scroll through his music.

Aiden's hand tightens around hers and he pulls Lydia towards the center of the studio, turning her around so Peter can't see their faces. “You know what he's looking for, right?” he asks quietly.

Lydia nods, she understands exactly what Aiden's asking her. They're dancers, completely disposable, a dime a dozen, even more so for Lydia, who's just another girl in a sea of aspiring ballerinas. They have to prove to Peter that they can handle his choreography, adult material, that they're professionals, that they're ready.

They have to make him fall in love with them.

“Lydia.” He bends over her, looking down at her searchingly, his voice very low and urgent. “Tell me you can do this.”

She sucks in a deep breath of air and straightens her shoulders. “I can do this.”

He gives her a crooked smile before looking serious again. “I'm going to need you to trust me.”

She blinks rapidly for a second. It's what they've been working on all year together, that fundamental element, trust. If Lydia doesn't trust him she won't be able to let go, they won't achieve their full potential, she'll drag them both down. She can't hesitate, not when she's dancing with him. She has to be sure. 

“I trust you,” she whispers. “You can do anything except”-

“I know,” he murmurs. They don't talk about it a lot but he was in class with everyone else when it happened, Aiden's aware that she doesn't trust easily, not anymore. He knows her limits. “I won't.”

“Okay,” she exhales, and rolls her neck, trying to keep the tension from creeping in.

“I think you should start,” Aiden suggests. “I'll come in when it feels right.”

“Alright,” she agrees.

He squeezes her hand before releasing her and walks to the back of the studio. Lydia turns around and faces Peter, who raises an eyebrow at her. She nods and steps into fifth, fluttering her arms in preparation, and Peter taps his phone and sits back down. Music starts to play, something slow and instrumental, strings, a minor chord. Lydia doesn't rush, she tilts her head and listens to the slow swaying eight count until she can feel it in her body, something aching and desperate.

 _Make me feel something_.

Lydia points her left foot and slowly raises her left leg behind herself until she's in a full arabesque. She doesn't check herself in the mirror, she stares straight ahead at the side wall of the studio and rises up on demi-pointe. She doesn't believe Peter for one second that he doesn't care about her technique, she can be perfect _and_ emote, she hasn't been studying Laura's old performances all these months for nothing.

She learned from the best.

Lydia holds the arabesque until she absolutely can't anymore, feeling the heat of Peter's eyes on her. The music swells and Lydia falls into a turn combination, whirling on a diagonal towards stage right. The music stops for a beat and she stills, knowing that sometimes there's nothing more chilling than a sudden pause, a few seconds of silence, before changing directions. Lydia falls out of her last turn and does a few chasses to build momentum before leaping up for a tour jeté, kicking her front leg up and switching direction mid-air to land in a low arabesque facing the opposite wall. 

She can sense Aiden moving behind her but she doesn't look, she brings her feet together in fifth and launches into the air for a firebird leap, bending her back leg up in the air and arching back like she's trying to touch the back of her head to her toes. She lands and does a pas de bourré glissand combination before jumping to the side for a grand jeté.

Aiden catches her mid-air, his arms coming around her waist to pull her back to his chest. Lydia points her toes harder, keeps her legs straight as Aiden turns with her in his arms, spinning faster and faster before finally slowing down and lowering her until her toes brush the floor. He grabs her hands and Lydia turns under their linked arms to face him. There’s a little moment of silence in the music again and Aiden releases her arms to cup her face intimately. Lydia stays up on demi-pointe, staring up at him. Her chest is heaving, she's totally lost in the moment with him, her body electrified. He gives her this tiny little smirk, the barest raise of his eyebrow, and she dips her chin in response, they've been working together long enough that she knows his signals.

Aiden wants to play.

Lydia jumps backwards, out of his grasp, and throws herself into another tour jeté. She lands facing Aiden and she gives him a small come-hither smile before coming up into fifth and taking a few traveling steps, dipping her hips and swirling her arms. He puffs out his chest and does a few barrel turns to catch up with her, Aiden reaches for her fingers and reels her in with a quick spin until she's back in his arms. Lydia stares up at him with big innocent eyes and he smirks, the big bad wolf with an armful of prey. The music slows and softens and Lydia follows Aiden's lead, stretching herself back against him, exposing the side of her neck. He drops his head a little, pressing his mouth right by her ear while running one hand down her side and over her hip to curl his fingers around the inside of her right thigh.

“We need a real lift,” he whispers, too quiet for Peter to hear. 

She raises her arms up above her head to wrap them behind his neck, squeezing gently in permission as she dares to look at Peter for the first time. He's watching them with his chin in his palm, reminiscent of Derek, but the expression on his face is everything - his blue eyes are wild with excitement and he's gripping the back of his chair. Lydia stares at the salacious picture she and Aiden are painting in the mirror, her parted lips and his hands splayed over her body. 

She raises her right leg up in a slow développé, his hand traveling down her leg until he's gripping her right ankle, the same position Derek worked on with her that day in technique. Aiden stretches her leg until it's almost at her ear, his left arm wrapped around her waist. He releases her leg and shifts behind her to the left, lunges down on one knee while reaching up with his left hand. It's the signal of the preparation for the lift, Lydia stretches her left arm to the side and links their hands. He pulls and she uses the momentum to lay sideways along his shoulders, her left leg leaving the floor to stack underneath the right. Aiden reaches up with his right hand and grips her thighs before slowly standing up.

Lydia wants to squeeze her eyes shut but she forces herself to look up at the ceiling, her left ear pressed against his shoulder and her hand curled tightly in his, her body a tight straight line across his shoulders. Aiden walks across the studio with her body laying across him, does a slow turn that makes Lydia swallow a whimper, digging her nails into his palm. Finally Aiden leans down to the left and Lydia splits her legs apart, rolling across his back and landing on her feet, her wrists held in his hands. Aiden releases her as the music slows and there's a moment, a magical still moment where they're just standing there, staring at each other and Lydia can _feel_ it, the intensity, the way Aiden is pushing her just enough. 

It's not the kind of thing that can be done on purpose but she knows it when it's happening, it's an undeniable feeling - what's happening right now between the two of them is special. They're completely connected and in the moment, they're weaving magic with their bodies. 

The music comes back in a final crescendo and Lydia leaps to him, bending her knees up to her chest and Aiden catches her left handed, forearm sliding under her thighs. She looks up at him and his right hand comes down to stroke her cheek, his eyes burning with unmistakable pride. He tips her chin up with his thumb and Lydia drops her head back. Aiden switches his grip on her, swiftly wrapping his right arm around her thighs as her neck falls into the crook of his left elbow. Lydia slowly straightens her legs, pointing her toes up at the ceiling as she rests them against Aiden's shoulder, hanging almost completely upside down.

She lets her arms dangle down over her head so that if he drops her she can catch herself, she's only six inches off the ground at the most, but Aiden isn't Jackson, he bends his knees and swings his arms and suddenly Lydia is flying straight up in the air, her body righting itself. She throws her right leg back as she comes down and Aiden catches her by the waist, bringing her to the floor for an assisted arabesque. They take a moment to breathe as the music trails off and just before it finishes he releases her leg to spin her dramatically before pulling Lydia to his body by her hips as she falls against his chest.

The music cuts out and she and Aiden stand like that for a few seconds, catching their breath, before she reaches down to take his hand and turns around to face Peter.

He's leaning back in his chair, the corners of his mouth turned up in a pleased little smile. “Well, well, well,” he drawls. “I think the three of us are going to have a lot of fun together.” 

*

Allison texts [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533168549241) when she's in the gym the next afternoon getting in a cardio session. Lydia frowns, slowing to a jog on the treadmill and unlocking her phone to read the text: _Dinner with Scott and Stiles tonight, 6:00?_

Lydia considers it for a moment - she doesn't have another rehearsal until tomorrow, and six is early enough that she'll still have plenty of time to stretch when she comes back.

 _Fine_ , Lydia texts back, and hops off the treadmill. 

She takes the back stairs up to the first floor and walks down the main hallway, takes the elevator up to the fourth floor and lets herself into her room. She peels off her clothes in the bathroom and takes a quick shower, shakes her hair out of its bun when she gets out, sprays dry shampoo at the roots and brushes it out into loose waves. Lydia applies foundation, concealer and blush, fills in her eyebrows, curls her lashes and adds two coats of dark brown mascara. She finishes with a layer of sheer pink lipgloss and walks across her dorm room over to her closet to pick out an outfit.

It's finally starting to warm up a little now that it's almost April, Lydia picks out a cute printed tee shirt dress that goes with her lightweight pink bomber [jacket](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533168672337). She gets dressed, lines up her boots and her bag at the foot of her bed and opens her laptop. When [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533168798145) comes back from class Lydia's sitting on her bed watching Laura Hale dance Cinderella with her headphones in. Her head snaps up at the sound of the door banging open; Allison waves, drops her dance bag on the floor with a _thunk_ and disappears into the bathroom, the door swinging shut behind her. She comes out ten minutes later completely naked, her hair wet and dripping down her back.

 _Fifteen minutes_ , she mouths at Lydia, grabbing a handful of clothes from her dresser, and goes back into the bathroom. Lydia leans back against the headboard and returns to Cinderella, watching Laura make her entrance at the ball. Lydia freezes the frame, leaning up close to stare at Laura's face - wide blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, pale skin like Cora's. She looks so young here, tender and delicate. So easily breakable.

Allison comes out of the bathroom with freshly blown out hair, wearing a soft pink tee shirt and a black [skirt](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533168901233) that flares out around her thighs, her arrow necklace hanging around her neck. Lydia takes her headphones off and shuts her laptop, transferring it to her desk before getting up to put on her boots.

“You look cute,” Allison says lightly, stepping into her boots and grabbing her denim jacket.

Lydia puts on her jacket and slings her bag over her shoulder. “I'm not that dressed up.”

Allison only smiles and turns off the light. “Come on, they're picking us up outside.”

They go down to the office to sign out, when Lydia's mother asks where they're going Allison just smiles and says, “Scott's taking us out to dinner.”

Lydia's mother beams and slides the sign out sheet in their direction because she loves Scott, everyone does, he's a parent's dream - polite, sweet, helpful. Allison doesn't mention anything about Scott's cute friend coming along and neither does Lydia. Her mother was a wreck after Lydia and Jackson broke up, Lydia has no idea how she would take it if she knew Lydia was even considering dating someone else.

Lydia and Allison scribble their names on the sheet and skip through the lobby, Lydia reaches up and smooths one hand over her hair as she walks through the front doors with Allison. It's getting harder, keeping everything separate, with Stiles slowly bleeding into her life more and more. How long can she really keep this up, holding Stiles at arms length, pretending she doesn't want anything more than his friendship? She knows it's wrong, she knows it's something she can't have - she has to focus on her work with Peter, keep building her partnering relationship with Aiden, prove to Derek that she deserves a spot in the company.

She doesn't have room in her life for anything beyond Stiles' friendship, it's just not possible, even if she secretly desires it. She doesn't know if she believes she can have both anymore, not after what happened with Jackson. The accident never would've happened if they'd kept their relationship professional; if they hadn't broken up in the middle of the night and screamed at each other until four in the morning they wouldn't have been so off in class. They shouldn't have been dancing that day, they were exhausted, emotional, furious with each other. They risked everything to be together, their bodies, their careers, until their love grew cold and bitter and ultimately broke them.

She can't go through that again. 

Stiles is waiting outside behind the wheel of the Jeep, Scott gets out of the passenger side and leaves the door open for Lydia to switch seats with him so he can sit in the back with Allison. Lydia hops up onto the seat and shuts the car door, crosses her ankles because her mother raised her to be a lady and turns towards Stiles.

“Hey,” she says, calm and measured, because this isn't a date, it can't be a date.

It's just dinner. Friends have dinner. It's fine.

Stiles is wearing a red and blue checked flannel over a grey crew neck, long fingers curled around the wheel. “Hey.”

Lydia tilts her head a little, presses her cheek against her headrest and runs a hand through her hair. “Hey.”

He grins, taking one hand off the wheel to casually brush his fingers over her bare knee. “Hey.”

Lydia shivers, sparks shooting up her leg where he touched her. How long has it been since she's felt that, someone's fingers on her bare skin, warming her up from the inside out? And now she's getting spoiled from it, Stiles always seems to find a way to create a moment of contact and she falls right into it, every time.

Allison pops up behind them, leaning in the space between their seats. “Hi guys.”

“Hello.” Lydia pats the top of Allison's head. “Don't worry, I know you're here.”

Allison giggles. “Are you sure?”

Lydia squishes Allison's cheeks gently between her palms, giving her fish lips. “How could I forget?”

“Hey guys, are we actually gonna, like, _go_ anytime soon? I'm starving,” Scott complains.

“Neither of you have your seatbelt on,” Stiles reminds him, and Allison retreats to the backseat, her cheeks flushing, and buckles up next to Scott

Lydia somehow forgot to check where they're going to dinner with Allison and resigns herself to the unknown as Stiles drives down the long tree-lined road that leads to the main street; he ends up taking them to a Mexican place on the other side of town they all apparently agreed to beforehand. It's dimly light, decorated in gleaming dark wooden booths upholstered in burgundy leather, a wall of smoky blue margarita glasses stacked behind the bar in the center of the restaurant. The hostess, a teenage girl with two shiny black braids long enough to brush the top of her skinny ass, leads them to a far booth and drops laminated menus on the table before drifting away. Scott climbs into the booth and Allison follows him, Stiles gets in opposite them and Lydia unzips her jacket before sliding in next to him.

She picks up the glass in front of her and takes a sip of ice water before staring down at the menu. Her fingers skim over words that make her chest tighten, she taps her right hand slowly against her thigh as she silently weighs the possibility of a quesadilla against a salad. After a few minutes a waitress comes and plunks down a basket of tortilla chips and guacamole on the table before whipping out her order pad. She starts with Allison, who orders a chicken quesadilla, then Scott, who gets a classic ground beef burrito. Stiles orders a something called a California burrito, which comes stuffed with an unbelievable amount of food - steak, cheese, avocado, pico de gallo, _French fries_. Lydia orders a chicken mango salad, dressing on the side, and hands the pile of menus to their waitress.

Allison clears her throat and ducks under Scott’s arm. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she says, and gets up from the booth. “Lydia?”

Lydia shoots Stiles a quick smile and shoulders her bag, slides out of the booth and follows Allison down a narrow hallway to the women's bathroom. Allison goes into a stall and Lydia walks over to the sink, setting her bag down on the counter. She messes with her hair, leans in towards the mirror to check her teeth, tilts her head from side to side to look at the shadows under her cheekbones. She remembers Peter watching her yesterday as she danced with Aiden, his blue eyes burning like the base of a flame.

What did he see, when he looked at her? 

There's the sound of a toilet flushing and Allison comes out of the stall to join Lydia at the sinks. She washes her hands and dries them with a paper towel, checks her reflection and twists a wayward curl away from her face, licks her lips. “Hey, do you have any lip balm?”

“There's a tube of Kiehl’s in my bag.” Lydia slides it over to Allison across the counter.

Lydia's phone buzzes in the pocket of her bomber jacket, when she takes it out she has a new email from Peter confirming the time of her rehearsal with him tomorrow night. It makes her heartbeat speed up just seeing his name, _Peter Hale_ , right there on the screen.

“Lydia, what is this?” Allison's voice sounds strange, high and tense.

“What's what?” she asks, locking her phone and sliding it back in her pocket. 

Allison takes something out of Lydia's bag and her stomach turns to ice. It's a half-eaten granola bar, the one Allison gave her in the car on the way to the lake house last week. “Is this - this is the bar I gave you?”

Lydia shrugs, cool and casual. “So?”

“So I thought you ate it.”

“I ate half,” Lydia points out.

Allison's clutching the granola bar like a knife. “You saved it.”

“I forgot to throw it out, big deal,” she says flippantly.

Allison blinks rapidly, her eyes flicking between Lydia and the bar. “But - you _saved_ it. You wrapped it all up, see?”

“Oh my god, so what? Excuse me for not wanting to waste food when I might have finished it later, except I obviously _forgot it was in there_.” Lydia snatches the bar out of Allison's hands and tosses it into the trash. “There, I threw it out, okay?”

Allison looks pale under her makeup. “Why would you save it?”

“I told you, I forgot I had it! Why do you even care?”

“Because it's weird!”

Lydia recoils, snatching her purse back and slinging the strap over her shoulder. “ _Excuse me?_ ”

“Well it is!” Allison exclaims defensively.

“Oh so I'm _weird_ now? Seriously?”

“I didn't say _you're_ weird, I said _it’s_ weird. Really though, why would you do that, unless…”

“Allison, come on, you're being ridiculous. I forgot it was in there, it's not a big deal.”

Allison's mouth drops open. “You lied to me.”

Lydia curls her fingers against her palms. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“The night before casting went up! I asked you, I _asked_ you if it was happening again and you said no.”

“I said _I don't know_ ,” Lydia snaps. “So I didn't lie and besides, you're overreacting, it's just a stupid bar, okay?”

“Overreacting?” Allison screeches. “You're - you're _hiding food!_ Come on Lydia, that is not normal!”

“I told you, I forgot about it, okay? I wasn't _hiding_ it.”

“Oh my god.” Allison's hands go up to her hair. “I can't believe you, I can't _believe_ you wouldn't tell me what was going on.”

“Because there's nothing to tell!”

Allison rakes her fingers through her hair. “You know what? Fine. Don't tell me. It's not like I'm your best friend or anything.”

Allison spins on her heel and stomps out of the bathroom, leaving Lydia to rush after her. Scott immediately looks concerned when they get back to the booth, Allison's face is stone cold and Lydia's cheeks are flushed in shame. “Hey, everything okay?” he asks, lifting his arm when Allison sits down so she can slide under it.

Allison nods wordlessly and rests her head against his shoulder, watching Lydia out of the corner of her eye. Lydia gives him a shiny fake smile as she sits down and reaches for a tortilla chip, dunks it in the guacamole so the chip is completely covered and brings it up to her lips. “Everything's fine,” she says, ignoring Allison's horrified expression, and shoves the entire thing into her mouth.

*

Lydia wakes up in the middle of the night to Allison crawling into her bed. She rolls over on her back in the dark, feeling Allison curl up next to her. Lydia yawns, reaching up to rub her eyes. “What's wrong?”

“I can't sleep,” Allison whispers.

“ _I_ was sleeping,” Lydia mutters.

“I'm sorry,” Allison whispers.

Lydia sighs and reaches out to pat Allison's shoulder. “It's okay.”

“I didn't mean it. What I said before.”

“I know,” she says softly.

Allison makes a little sniffling noise and presses her knees against Lydia's legs. “I just don't understand. Are you - are you trying to lose weight?” she asks hesitantly.

Lydia flinches involuntarily, remembering what Jackson said to her the night they broke up. _You're dead weight_. “No. It's not… it's not really about that.”

“What's it’s about then?”

Lydia blinks up at the ceiling. “After it happened… and then that whole summer, when I couldn't work out or dance, and it… I guess it made me feel like I had something that I could control. It felt good. It's not - it's not like I'm _not_ eating.”

“But that was last year,” Allison says in a tiny voice. “And you're still…”

“I know,” she murmurs, guilt squirming uncomfortably in her stomach. “I told you, I have it under control.”

“Really?” Allison asks skeptically. “Because that's not really what it looks like.”

“You're overreacting,” Lydia whispers. “It's not like - it's not like I have a real problem.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don't you think I know what I'm doing?”

“I don't know anymore,” Allison confesses. “Do you… need to talk to someone about it?”

“Like, professionally?”

“Yeah.”

“It's not that bad,” Lydia dismisses quickly.

Allison is quiet for a moment. “I don't know if I believe that.”

“Allison”-

“I think Scott knows.”

Lydia whips her head to the side. “Did you _tell_ him?”

“No! I didn't, I swear, I wouldn't do that. It's just - he was asking questions. At the lake house.”

“What kinds of questions?”

“He wanted to know why you didn't eat your birthday cake,” Allison says miserably. “I'm sorry, I didn't know what to say, I didn't tell him anything, I promise, but you know how Scott gets.”

“It's fine,” Lydia says quickly, because Allison sounds sad and guilty and none of this is her fault. “It's okay, it's not your fault.”

“I just want to help you,” Allison whispers. “But when I try it feels like I'm making things worse.”

“I don't need you to help me. I'm okay, I'll - I'll try harder, okay?”

“Okay, but - if it gets worse you _have_ to tell me.”

“Okay.”

“I'm serious, Lydia.”

“I know.”

Allison sighs and rests her cheek on Lydia's pillow. “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

“Sure.” Lydia pulls the blanket up Allison's shoulders and rolls back over onto her side, falling asleep to the soft tickle of Allison's breath ghosting across the back of her neck.

*

“Core is _in_ , shoulder are _back!_ ” Marin shouts over the piano during pointe the next morning.

They're standing in the center for pirouettes, doing doubles en dehors on both sides. Lydia focuses on pulling up, squeezing her abs in as she whips her head around to spot. In the mirror she watches Malia do a single instead of a double, coming down two counts early and scowling before switching feet and doing another lazy single turn.

“Mademoiselle Tate, I said doubles, not singles!”

The music ends and everyone comes down from their turns, turning instinctively towards Malia, where she's standing in the back line with her arms crossed over her leotard. Marin stalks over to her, her violet printed georgette skirt skimming the floor.

“I said doubles,” Marin repeats. “Show me.”

Malia tilts her head, like she's thinking about it. “Mm, no thanks.”

The room falls absolutely silent, no one _ever_ speaks to Marin that way. To her credit Marin doesn't even flinch, she just folds her arms across her chest. “I wasn't asking.”

“Yeah, I just don't feel like it,” Malia says casually.

Marin arches a sharp eyebrow. “You don't _feel_ like it.”

“What are you gonna do about it, make me?” Malia taunts. “I guess we could go talk to Derek about it. He's my cousin, remember?”

“That's enough,” Marin says softly. “Get out of my class.”

“My pleasure.” Malia sneers at her and stalks across the studio, picks up her bag and walks out without even stopping to take off her pointe shoes.

Marin turns and walks back to the front of the room, staring at the remaining girls, who are all watching her silently. “Anyone else?” Marin asks. “If you don't _feel_ like dancing you know where the door is.”

None of them move, Lydia watches everyone in the mirror. Cora's expression is as placid as always, an enigma, Erica is clearly disgruntled, and Kira looks like she's on the verge of tears. Allison frowns at Lydia and mouths _what the hell?_. Lydia shrugs in response, completely baffled.

“Well,” Marin murmurs, when none of them say anything. “That's what I thought.”

*

When [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533169023975) enters the practice studio that night for her second showcase rehearsal Peter is already there, standing alone, plugging his phone into the speakers. “Lydia!” he says cheerfully. “Come, darling, I've been waiting for you.”

“Where's Aiden?” Lydia crosses the studio to him and drops her bag against the wall of mirrors.

“It's just you and me today. I've decided we’ll begin the first section of the piece with you. My little innocent Red.” Peter’s eyes scan her body. “Are you warm?”

Lydia nods dutifully, her spine tingling with nerves.

“Good girl.” Peter cups her shoulder, just for a moment. “Well then, shoes on, come, let's begin.”

Lydia sits down on the floor and quickly tapes her pinkie toes, gets her toe pads on and puts on her pointe shoes. She ties the ribbons tightly as music begins to play, flute, something soft and charming. Lydia gets up and follows Peter over to the far corner of the studio, watching him expectantly.

“We’ll begin stage left,” he announces. “Shadow me.”

Lydia steps behind him, mimicking his first steps. “Our ballet opens with Little Red,” Peter says in a hushed tone. “Off to the forest to visit her grandmother. She doesn't know about the wolf, of course.” He turns over his shoulder to give her a wry smile. “Girls should be more careful, really, than to go walking alone in the woods. But then again, if she didn't, we wouldn't have a story now, would we?”

Lydia follows behind him as he talks, weaving up and down stage left. “This is the beginning,” Peter reminds her. “Imagine Lydia. You're young, innocent. Full of wonder, off to have an adventure, commune with nature. Granny is waiting for you but there's no rush. I need to see this from you, yes? Innocence. It always begins with the innocent, remember that. Be a sweet little girl for me now, go on. Show me how you would move.”

Lydia rises up on the toes of her shoes and does a few bourrés to the side. She gazes around the studio, pretending she's outside wandering in the forest preserve that's set behind the school. Look, a tree, look, a flower! She remembers Laura’s beautiful wide eyes and does her best imitation, taking delicate steps across an imaginary forest floor.

Peter slowly steps away, walking backwards to watch her move across the floor. “That's it,” he murmurs. “Go on.”

Lydia does a few small jumps, pretending to play - she mimes hopping over a log, bending over to pick a flower. She twirls along an invisible path, looks up to watch birds fly over her head. She starts to lose herself in the game, letting her body decide how it wants to move. She dances the way she did when she was little, no judgement, no over-thinking, just moves and twirls because it's fun and it feels good to play.

When the music ends she comes back to herself - she isn't waltzing with a gang of friendly forest friends on a sunny afternoon, she's in a cold basement studio dancing for one of the best choreographers in the world. Peter unplugs his phone and gestures to her; Lydia quickly walks to the front of the studio, waiting to be given notes but he just reaches out and takes her hand.

“Turn around,” he instructs. Lydia turns to face the mirror, Peter standing right behind her. “Now tell me Lydia, what do you see?”

She looks at her reflection - her hair is pulled tightly back from her face in a bun, her cheeks are flushed with color, and her body is a lean line of pale blue and pink. “A dancer?” she murmurs, like she isn't sure of the answer.

“A dancer,” he scoffs. “Please. Any girl with a pair of ballet slippers and a dream can call themselves a dancer.”

One of his hands cups her left shoulder and the other goes to her face, tipping her chin up a little. “Do you know why I cast you, Lydia?”

She stares at him in the mirror, managing a little amused smile. “Because I have red hair?”

“Clever girl,” Peter chuckles. “But no. I chose you because of what I see when you dance. I wasn't sure of it until you walked for me but as soon as you took your first step, I knew.”

“You knew what?” she whispers.

He trails his fingers down the side of her face and Lydia holds herself very still, a little shocked at the intimacy of his touch but then again, she's a dancer, _his_ dancer, and that's what her body is for - to be touched, stretched, tested to its absolute limit. “You're so small - so breakable. Innocent. But there's fire in you too. I can see it, when I look in your eyes. You want to be a prima?”

Lydia nods, too afraid to speak lest she break the spell. She stares at herself in the mirror, Peter's hands on her, like she's his doll, like he can bend and mold her into anything he chooses.

“Of course you do,” he murmurs. “You know, I can make that happen for you. I'm a very powerful man, darling. Would you like that? To dance at the front of the stage every night? Watch the world fall in love with you?”

She nods, shaking a little, his hand like a vice on her shoulder. It's everything she's ever wanted, ever dared to dream of, and here Peter is, offering it to her on a silver platter.

“Oh yes,” Peter says, so quietly, like he's talking to himself. “I believe we can do that.”

She catches his eyes in the mirror and they sparkle with a million unspoken promises. “Look at you, my darling.” Peter cradles her jaw in his palm tenderly, like a lover. “I'm going to make you a star.”


	11. the ballerina and the wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay lovelies, two important things before we begin:
> 
> 1)When I posted Chapter 10 last week AO3 didn't update it to the Teen Wolf page and some subscribers didn't get their email, so before you do anything go back a chapter and make sure you're caught up. I have no idea why this happened so if you're invested in this I would bookmark it just in case or you can check for updates on my [tumblr](http://traeflower12.tumblr.com/).
> 
> 2)This is the chapter that earned the 'Peter Hale is a creep' tag so consider yourselves warned. Please don't throw things at me, I bruise easily.

On Friday night her mom takes [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533255039375) and [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533255116421) to see the company perform in San Francisco. They're doing a preview of Coppélia for some critics and because Lydia’s mother works for the company she gets perks sometimes, free tickets and invitations to the upper echelons of ballet. Lydia grew up like this, she learned how to walk in the lobby of the company's theatre, played dress up in the costume room when the seamstress was feeling generous, idolized the dancers who walked in and out of her mother's office.

How could she not want to be one of them someday? Those beautiful slim girls with faces painted like dolls who flew across the stage like they were weightless.

They go out to eat first, at an upscale Japanese place down the street from the theatre. Lydia eats sashimi, soft and slippery tuna, miso soup, and when Allison offers a few bites of her teriyaki chicken Lydia accepts without making a fuss. Her mother drinks a sake martini and eats a California roll while they gossip about the company, which girls are up for soloist promotions, how Jordan Parrish will perform in his first principal roll. Everyone loves him, her mother says, he's not Derek but that's not necessarily a bad thing - Derek has had a bad boy rep ever since the affair with Kate was exposed all those years ago, the scrutiny on the family even worse after Laura. It wouldn't hurt the company to have a principal dancer who's scandal-free.

After her mother signs the check they walk up the block to the theatre where the Hale Ballet Company performs. Lydia stops on the sidewalk to look up at the giant poster behind the glass of Jordan and Braeden as Franz and Swanhilda. They both look six feet tall, superhuman, impossibly beautiful. She closes her eyes for a moment, imaging herself and Aiden posed in front of the camera, captured in photograph and blown up, reigning over the world of ballet like gods.

Her heart flutters when they step into the theater and take the red velvet covered stairs up to the lobby. Lydia loves the theatre, the drama of it, that contagious rush of excitement running through the crowd before the show starts. They have good seats in the center, Lydia sits in between her mother and Allison and fans open her program, skimming the company's brief summary of the ballet and checking out the black and white headshots of each company member.

Coppélia is a comic ballet about an inventor named Dr. Coppélius, who creates a life-sized doll called Coppélia. She is so realistic looking that a village boy, Franz, becomes completely infatuated with her to the point that he scorns his true love, Swanhilda, setting up a love triangle between Franz, Swanhilda, and the lifeless yet realistic doll Coppélia, who requires a human sacrifice to come to life. It's a classic ballet, beloved by everyone, Deucalion is clearly sticking with what works. Such a contrast from Peter, who revived old tired ballets with new exciting choreography, staged originals, constantly pushed the artistic envelope.

The lights flicker and Lydia settles back in her seat as they dim, bathing the theatre in darkness. A spotlight turns on over the orchestra pit and the conductor stands, slides on a pair of glasses before holding out his hands to the orchestra and the music begins, quivering strings starting to play in a quick tempo as the curtains part. The ballet begins in Dr. Coppélius’ workshop with the creation of Coppélia, played by a dancer named Kali who studied under Deucalion at Alpha Ballet Academy. She does Coppélia’s funny solo, moving robotically, her face strange and still. Everyone applauds as she dances right into the wings, Dr. Coppélius chasing after her.

The next scene takes place in the village, Jordan and Braeden enter as Franz and Swanhilda, the young lovers. They dance an athletic pas de deux, big leaps and lifts. Lydia can see right away what her mother meant about Jordan - he's strong, gets amazing height on his jumps, and his boyish face is charming. Other company members enter onstage dressed as villagers and soon everyone is dancing. Lydia glances sideways at Allison, who's watching with one hand over her mouth, eyes wide, enraptured, and Lydia smiles as she returns to what's happening on stage.

It's like magic, the ballet, like being lost in a beautiful dream. Lydia doesn't want it to end - she wants to stay here forever, under the spell of the theatre, the lights, suspended in time. She watches in awe as Braeden performs the variation Malia will dance in the showcase, those powerful legs, the way Braeden explodes up on every leap. The ballet ends with the wedding of Franz and Swanhilda, everyone happy, a nice little fairy tale ending. Lydia sighs in delight as the ballet finishes, clapping loudly at the curtain call, watching as everyone curtsies and bows. In two months it'll be her up onstage, dancing for her life, her future, her place in this very company.

The curtain eventually falls for the final time and the lights go up. Lydia rolls her shoulders back and turns to Allison, who's curled over, her eyes squeezed shut. “Allison,” Lydia whispers, laying one hand gently on Allison's shoulder.

“I'm okay.” Allison sniffs and wipes under her eyes. “Sorry.”

Lydia's stomach cramps, she hasn't seen Allison cry since the end of sophomore year when her mother insisted on sending her to Paris for a summer intensive program, effectively killing her fledgling relationship with Scott (they got back together as soon as Allison came back for junior year and she didn't talk to her mother for months). “What's wrong?”

Allison tilts her head back and Lydia reaches out to wipe off a smear of mascara from her cheek. “Nothing, sorry, I don't know why this is making me so emotional.”

Her mother leans over her lap, smiling at them as Allison quickly straightens up. “They were absolutely fabulous, weren't they?”

“Yeah,” Allison says brightly, still teary eyed, and clutches Lydia's hand. “Totally fabulous.”

*

Stiles texts Lydia on Saturday night after she's had dinner with her mother (takeout from Beacon Hills Cafe again). She's in her room dressed in leggings and a bra, about to roll out her yoga mat, when her phone buzzes. _Hey Lydia, want to come over if you're not too busy tonight?_

She stares at her phone, bottom lip caught between her teeth, thinking for a moment before she responds. _I still have to stretch…_

His reply is almost instantaneous. _You could stretch here._

Lydia can't help the smile that creeps over her face. _You wouldn't mind?_

_Not if you don't. We can put on a movie or something?_

_I'm going to need your address then._

Stiles drops her a pin and Lydia doesn't even have to plug his address into google maps because she recognizes his street, he lives ten minutes away from her. _Be there in twenty_ , she texts, and drops her phone down on the bed. She opens her dresser and pulls out a [sweatshirt](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533255261743) to put on over her bra and sits down at her vanity. She braids back the top section of her hair and then bends down to gather it all up in a ponytail secured at the crown of her head. Lydia applies a little concealer under her eyes, dabs on highlighter, lip gloss and a few coats of mascara. She puts on her socks and Nikes, slings her cross-body bag over her shoulder, grabs her yoga mat and her phone and tiptoes downstairs.

Her mother's car keys are in the dish on the top of the entry table in the foyer. Lydia's almost got her fingers around them when her mother appears from the living room, cradling a glass of white wine in one hand. “And where do you think you're going?”

“Scott's,” Lydia lies. “He invited me and Allison and Isaac over to watch a movie.”

“Oh.” Her mother smiles, she's so easily placated. “That sounds nice. Is Isaac single?”

“Mom!”

“I was just asking,” she says innocently.

“Ew, Mom, really?”

“What? Isaac's adorable, isn't he?”

Lydia rolls her eyes impatiently. “I don't know, I guess so.”

“You know honey, it's been a long time since you and Jackson broke up. I think if you want to start dating again” -

“ _Mom_.”

“Maybe Scott can introduce you to one of his friends from school,” she muses. “He's such a nice boy, he must have a friend he could set you up with. After the showcase, maybe.”

“I'll ask him,” Lydia says faintly, and snatches up the keys. “Bye!”

“Bye honey!” her mother calls out as she escapes out the front door.

Lydia jogs down the walk and unlocks the car; she slides into the driver's seat and turns around to lay her yoga mat across the backseat. She checks Stiles’ address on her phone one more time before starting the car and turning the headlights on, the clock on the dash glowing 8:08pm. She backs down the driveway and turns onto the street, humming along to the radio. She taps her fingers against the wheel as she drives, suddenly realizing that this will be the first time she and Stiles have spent actual time alone together without Scott and Allison nearby. It's not that she's nervous exactly, she's spent enough time with Stiles to feel comfortable with him but this is different, this is real, this isn't a group date or an innocent run in at the cafe. Lydia rubs her fingers against her right side briefly, reminding herself that she needs to be careful - the last time she liked a guy this much she ended up in the emergency room with a cracked rib.

_Stiles isn't Jackson_ , Allison promised. Maybe Lydia can't trust him yet but she trusts her best friend, Allison wouldn't have tried so hard to push them together if he wasn't a good guy. He's not even the kind of guy she would normally go for - she used to like them bad, cocky, used to crave Jackson’s rough hands and his sharp smiles. 

She used to be different then. She trusted blindly, she was fearless, she thought she was bulletproof. She didn't know what it was like to fall, she didn't know her body’s full capacity for pain back then.

Before the boy she loved broke her heart and then her body in the span of twelve hours.

When Lydia gets to Stiles’ house the porch light is on, she parks in the empty driveway and turns off her headlights and the engine, gets out of the car and retrieves her yoga mat. She crosses the front yard up to the porch, Stiles must have been watching the clock because the door swings open right as she climbs the top step. He's illuminated by the light behind him, dressed in jeans and an unzipped grey hoodie over a tee shirt with a faded Captain America logo on it.

“Hey,” he greets her, leaning in the doorway.

“Hey.” She stands on his porch, suddenly unsure of what to do next. 

Stiles decides for her, stepping back into the foyer and gesturing for her to follow him inside. He shuts the door behind her and locks it, offering her a wry smile. “My dad’s gonna be at a meeting for a while so it’s just us.”

Lydia offers him a tight smile in return, feeling a little self-conscious. What is she really doing here, with him? What is she doing?

And then Stiles suddenly leans over her, his arms coming around her, and everything melts away. Lydia drops her yoga mat to hug him back, going up on her tiptoes so that she can press her face into the side of his neck and just breathe, feel his warm skin against her cheek again. One of his hands wraps around her neck and squeezes gently before curling around her ponytail. Lydia tilts her head back and is rewarded with a smile.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

Her eyes flick from his lips back up to his eyes. “Hey.”

“You look good,” he says in a low voice. “You doing good?”

“Yeah,” she breathes, her scalp tingling when he wraps her hair idly around his hand. “You?”

“Can't complain.” Stiles releases her hair and slowly steps away from her. “Do you want anything before we start a movie? Did you want to watch a movie? You were watching tv when you were stretching at the lake house so I figured a movie wouldn't be _too_ distracting but” -

“A movie’s fine,” she says, turning around to retrieve her yoga mat.

“Okay, in that case, do you want anything? Popcorn? Candy? Soda?”

“Water?” she requests.

“Sure.” Stiles grins and gestures loosely at the living room. “Be back in a sec, make yourself at home.”

She leans against the wall to watch him walk away, those broad shoulders and long legs disappearing around a corner. Lydia goes into the living room, looking around curiously. There's a couch along one wall opposite the tv, a coffee table, a few armchairs scattered around the room. She walks around the coffee table until she's standing to the left of the couch and unrolls her mat out on the floor. She sits on the edge of the couch and untied her Nikes, lines them up neaty on the floor against the side of the couch. Stiles comes back with a glass of water, Lydia takes it from him with a murmured _thanks_ , and sets it down on the coffee table over a coaster. His fingers brush her wrist as he walks past her to grab the remote and turns the tv on. 

“Okay,” he announces, turning on the guide and switching to the movie channels to skim through them. “We’ve got Fight Club, Adam Sandler's latest bomb, I have a feeling Tarantino isn't your thing, something with that chick from Twilight, the latest Avengers movie…”

“Never seen it.”

Stiles turns back over his shoulder to raise an eyebrow. “Want to try it?”

She shrugs. “Sure.”

He grins and changes the channel, puts the remote down and walks over to the couch to sit down. “So um, you're gonna stretch?”

Lydia nods, moving to the top of her mat and facing the tv. “Yeah, sorry, it's part of my training regimen, it shouldn't take me more than an hour.”

“You stretch for an _hour?_ ”

Lydia throws him a smirk over her shoulder. “I like to be thorough.”

He nods, looking a little dazed. “Cool, you, yeah, you be as thorough as you need to.”

“I always am,” she says, low and amused, and turns back around.

She starts with her neck as the movie begins. She bends her chin to her chest and then arches her head back, slowly, feeling the stretch in her spine. She repeats the exercise a few times and then turns her head from side to side before doing circles, slowly working out the kinks, bending her knees to keep her legs loose. She moves on to a side stretch, curving one arm over her head and leaning away, breathing through the pull in her right oblique.

_You pull your oblique and you could compromise your entire right side, you know that right?_

Lydia shuts her eyes for a moment and mentally tells Scott to fuck off.

She walks back to the foot of her mat, towards the couch. She can't help but turn to the right to glance at Stiles, who seems torn between watching her and watching the movie. Lydia take a few deep breaths and stretches her arms up over her head before tucking her chin and slowly rolling down until she's hanging upside down with her hands flat on the floor and her face pressed against her knees. She keeps her legs soft, feeling the stretch in her back and lets her head go, shaking it back and forth, bending her knees a few times so her hamstrings don't lock up. She pulls in her stomach and walks her hands down until she's on her hands and knees on the mat. She does cat/cows, bending and flexing her spine. She can see Stiles’ flickering reflection in the windowpane, his eyes glued to her ass.

Lydia presses her lips together so she doesn't laugh and pushes back into a downward dog, catching the little groan that escapes Stiles’ mouth before he coughs loudly to cover it up. She widens her stance and glances at him from between her legs. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Yeah, I'm great. Perfect. Just enjoying this fine piece of cinema right here.”

Lydia hums in response and lifts her right leg up in the air before bending at the knee and swinging it forward so her leg is laid out on the mat in front of her in pigeon pose. She walks her hands out and falls over her right leg, pressing her forehead against the mat, breathing through the stretch in her right glute and left hip before coming up on her hands and pushing her right leg back so she's in downward dog again. She repeats the stretch on the other side and then slides out on her stomach, pushing back into a cobra to stretch her abs before flipping over onto her back, head by the front of her mat so she's facing Stiles and the couch.

“Hey,” he says, eyes a little wide where he's stretched out on the cushions. “How's it going?”

Lydia gives him a slow smile, an idea that's been rolling around in her head taking shape. “Want to help me?”

Stiles blinks quickly, his eyes dropping to her legs. “Help you stretch?”

“Mmhm.”

“Sure!” he says eagerly. “Um, what do I do?”

Lydia draws her feet up so they're flat on the mat and her knees are bent. “Come here,” she says, and pats the space next to her right hip.

He launches off the couch and walks around the coffee table to sit next to her. “Okay. Ready to assist.”

“Kneel,” Lydia instructs. “I'm going to put my leg on your shoulder and you're going to push it - slowly - towards my head.”

“Okay,” he says shakily, coming up on his shins. “How do I know how far” -

“I'll tell you.” She peels her right foot off the mat and slowly raises her leg, toe pointed up at the ceiling, and rests her calf against his shoulder. “Okay, put your right hand on my ankle.”

Long fingers curl around her ankle and Lydia shivers a little. _Focus_. “Good. Now you're going to lean over me, _slowly_.”

Stiles nods seriously, sliding his left hand up towards her head, and begins to lean forward. Her leg slowly comes closer to her body as he stretches her hamstring, stopping when he gets a little past ninety degrees. “More?”

“Yeah, keep going.” She stares straight up at the ceiling, feeling her cheeks flush, until Stiles has her legs a few inches from her face. “That's good, stay there for a few seconds.”

“Christ,” he mutters, but does what she tells him. “You're ridiculously flexible.”

“Part of the job description. Okay that's good, you can let go.”

Stiles slides out from under her leg and releases his grip on her ankle, and Lydia returns her leg to the floor. “Okay, come around to my left, other side.”

He nods and scoots around her feet to kneel by her left hip. Lydia raises her left leg up and Stiles catches her by the ankle, props her leg up on his shoulder and begins to bend over her. She exhales slowly, watching him come closer and closer until her leg is inches from her face. “That's good,” she breathes.

“Yeah?” He's so close to her, she can feel the heat from his right hand a few inches from her head, his knee next to her hip, his other hand tight on her ankle.

“Yeah.” It come out like a moan.

His hand slowly comes off her ankle and Lydia slides her leg down but Stiles doesn't move, just plants his left hand on the other side of her head, hovering over her, his eyes burning. He dips closer, his gaze dropping to her lips and back up to her eyes, eyebrow lifted in a silent question.

Lydia lifts her head off the ground and closes the space between them by pressing her lips to his. Stiles makes a cut-off noise and then he's kissing her back, his right hand sliding under her head so she can rest it back against the mat, his knees shifting so he's in between her legs.

He brushes his lips against hers and pulls away so he's right above her, close enough for her to feel his breath on her lips. “This okay?” he whispers.

Lydia nods, wordless, and reaches up with one hand to slide her fingers in his hair and push his head back down. He captures her lips with his and Lydia yields, letting her mouth part for him. It's been so long since someone's kissed her like this, slow and deep, she can feel herself melt against the floor as his tongue licks into her mouth. She groans and tilts her head back, her body a flower, petals unfurling open to let him in. She should feel trapped like this, held hostage under his body, but she doesn't. She feels safe, contained, his tongue tentatively exploring hers.

It feels _good_ , like finally giving in to what her body has wanted ever since she saw him twirling a pen behind Deaton's desk. She reaches up, bold in her surrender, and pushes his hoodie off his shoulders. Stiles goes up on his shins and whips it off before coming back down, settling in between her legs and lowering himself down until his lips are pressing kisses under her jaw.

“I've wanted to kiss you for so long,” he whispers fervently. “God, Lydia, you have no idea.”

He suckles on the side of her throat and she whimpers as heat spreads across her skin under his mouth. It's like waking up from an enchanted sleep, breaking through a layer of frost, every nerve ending lifting its sleepy head at the ministrations of his lips. She reaches up and slides her hands under the hem of his shirt, hot skin under her palms, feeling him jerk and shudder at her touch.

“You're so pretty,” he mutters, catching her earlobe between his lips to suck on it. “Fuck, Lydia.”

“Yeah,” she sighs, mapping out taut muscle and vertebra with her fingers. “Do that again.”

He complies and she shudders under him, arching up helplessly. There's some part of her that is aware this is already getting out of control, they're making out on the _floor_ when there's a perfectly good couch inches away, but she can't make herself care right now, not when there's a boy with golden eyes and gentle hands taking her apart with his mouth. 

How long has it been since she let herself have something she wanted like this?

His mouth returns to hers and Stiles catches her bottom lip in between his teeth. She pants against his mouth, her fingers digging into his waist. He releases her lip and Lydia chases him with her tongue, desperate for more. It's like now that's she gotten a taste she can't stop, she wants to drink him up, unpeel her skin and let him light her body on fire until she's nothing but a burning flame.

She _wants_.

She loses time kissing him, until the only thing that exists anymore is Stiles - his hands and his mouth and his hips just above hers but not giving her enough of what she wants. 

She bends her knees and curls her legs around his, catching him in the cradle of her hips. Stiles hisses _shitfuckLydia_ into her mouth, coming down on his forearms and dropping his weight a little. She's only wearing a pair of leggings over a lace thong, when she rolls her hips up to meet him it sends lighting up her spine. She gasps, breathless, pulling her mouth away to catch her breath. He rubs up against her, just a little, like he's testing her, unsure of how far to go. Lydia hikes her right leg up high on his hip and flattens her palms against his chest to roll them over.

Stiles goes willingly, stretching out on his back and staring up at her. He looks awestruck, pupils blown, mouth obscenely red and a little puffy. She straddles his hips, her legs splayed out on either side, his body trembling under hers. She gets caught in the moment, frozen, the room quiet except for the low murmur of the tv in the background and the synchronized rise and fall of their breath. Lydia swallows, heartbeat pounding in her ears, and slowly, watching Stiles’ face, begins to roll her hips. 

“Fuck,” he grits out, his hands flying up to grip her thighs.

Her muscles soften as she moves, liquid heat in her veins as she lets her head fall back. It's all she can focus on - his body under hers, the way he's holding her so tightly that she knows she could never fall, not like this. His hands roll inward, thumbs starting to stroke against her leggings and Lydia moans, little flutters of pleasure lighting up under her skin. Surely she's losing her mind, she doesn't act like this, completely let herself go, take and take what she wants.

But she only knows what it's like with Jackson, taking what little she could get, grabbing at scraps, fucking with their phone alarms set so they wouldn't get caught or be late to class. It was just a part of their relationship, like they way they bickered constantly and pushed each other to go harder in class. They didn't know how to be gentle, not with each other.

But doing this, with Stiles, this is like a slow sensuous slide into insanity and she doesn't want it to stop.

“Get down here,” Stiles pleads, and brings his hands around to cup her ass.

She bends down over him, hovering above his face, and braces one hand on his chest as she brings their mouths together in a kiss. He pushes his hips up into her and she cries into his mouth, her body burning up in his hands. He does it again and she retaliates by suckling on his throat, scraping her teeth against his jaw. 

“What do you want?” he says hoarsely, sliding one of his hands up her back under her sweatshirt.

Lydia sighs into the pressure of his palm at the small of her back and rocks her hips. “Hmm?”

“What do you want to do?” he clarifies, his voice shaking. “We don't have to - we can just do this, I mean, we're not even dating and I don't know how important that is to you” -

“Not feeling very relevant right now,” she murmurs, and brushes her lips against his in a ghost of a kiss.

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” His other hand curls around her hip, encouraging her movements.

“This is good,” she breathes, her body bowed over him, her skin crackling with electricity.

He runs his fingers up her spine. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” she whispers.

He smiles up at her and she thinks she could come just from this, with him hard underneath her and that look on his face, like she's the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on. “Good,” he whispers back.

His right hand comes up to cup the back of her neck and she collapses against him, their faces rubbing together, lazily trading kisses as she rolls her hips against him in a tortuous slow grind. He's breathing harshly and she's not doing much better, panting against his lips with every movement. She's delirious with it, his hands on her, every nerve in her body lit up like a Christmas tree. She could do this for hours, until she's nothing but a puddle of desire held between his palms -

The front door creaks open.

Lydia launches off of Stiles as he sits up, looking horrified, one hand coming down to frantically adjust himself in his jeans before scrambling to his feet. “Hello?”

Lydia stands up as a man comes into the room. He's wearing a beige uniform, has sandy hair and weathered skin. His eyes come to Lydia and he frowns a little before turning to Stiles. “Who’s this?”

“This is Lydia, she goes to school with Allison,” Stiles says quickly. “I thought your meeting went ‘til ten, Dad.”

Stiles’ father gives him a disparaging look. “It's ten-thirty.” He turns his attention back to Lydia. “You dance at the Hale School then?”

“Yes,” she says politely, holding her hand out to him. “It's nice to meet you.”

He shakes her hand, quick and firm, before raising an eyebrow at Stiles. “I think it's time for Lydia to go home now.”

“Okay,” Stiles says weakly.

The Sheriff shoots him a look Lydia can't interpret and rolls his eyes up to the ceiling briefly. “I'll let you two say goodnight, it was nice to meet you Lydia.”

“You too,” she says reflexively, watching as he cuffs Stiles on the shoulder and ambles into the kitchen.

Stiles whistles, looking a little bashful. “So, uh. That was my dad.”

“I gathered that,” she teases gently, and his face splits into a grin. She collects her Nikes and sits on the edge of the couch to lace them up and rolls up her yoga mat.

“Come on,” he says softly, wrapping one arm around her shoulders. “I'll walk you to your car.”

Lydia follows him outside and down to the driveway where a cruiser is parked to the left of her mother's sedan. Lydia opens the backseat to toss her yoga mat in the car before turning around to face Stiles, leaning up against her door.

“So.” Stiles reaches down and curls a few of his fingers around hers. “Thanks for coming over.”

Lydia's caught in his eyes, caged in by the cars and the throb of desire still pulsing through her body. “I had a good time.”

“Me too.” He bends down, lips an inch away from hers. “Maybe next time you have a night off we could hang out again?”

“Okay,” she breathes, and tilts her face up expectantly.

Stiles kisses her soft and sweet, lips brushing reassuringly against hers before pulling away. “Drive safe.”

“I will,” she promises, and rises up on her toes to kiss him again, just because she can.

Stiles smiles and runs a thumb across her cheek. “Goodnight Lydia.”

“Goodnight Stiles.”

She stands back and lets him open the car door for her, slides into the passenger seat and smiles at him through the window as he shuts the door. Lydia starts the engine, turns on her headlights and shifts into reverse, watching Stiles stand there and wave at her as she backs down the driveway and drives away.

*

“Watch her,” Peter tells Aiden, standing at the back of the studio and gesturing at [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533255396050), who's dancing in the center. It's Monday night and they're rehearsing in a practice studio again, building on the material she and Peter worked on last week. “She's in your territory, on your land. You're curious. Maybe you've never seen a girl like her before, and certainly no one so beautiful. Lydia, do that lovely combination you did with me the other day, would you? Thank you, darling.”

Lydia falls into the dance she did on Thursday for him, her little playful exploration of the imaginary forest, skipping and leaping across the studio as Peter works with Aiden.

“Now remember, you're a predator,” Peter coaches him. “You're smart, you're cunning, and _she is your prey_. Understand?”

“Yeah I think I get it,” Aiden says dryly. 

“Very well then.” Peter steps back, waving his hand at Aiden to begin.

Lydia continues to dance, watching Aiden in the mirror. Peter's given him a combination that moves back and forth across the floor behind her, tracking her movements without stepping into her line of vision. They have a few X’s taped on the floor to represent the set pieces Peter wants, trees and a log for Lydia to pas de chat over. Behind her Aiden leaps around the back of the studio, jumping high in the air and landing almost silently, slowly weaving his way closer to her.

“Good,” Peter says briskly. “Get a little closer. Remember, this is a game to you. You have all the power - you're stronger, you're faster. You can take all the time you want.”

Aiden keeps dancing as Peter talks, springing up for a tour jeté before doing a few leaping barrel rolls. Lydia spins and Aiden pretends to duck behind a tree. Lydia stills, pretending like she's listening for something, before twirling away. Aiden comes back out from the tree and leaps a little closer. They continue on, playing a stunted game of hide and seek, until finally he gets close enough that when Lydia comes out of a turn combination he's right there, smiling, the big bad wolf.

“Stay there.” Peter comes up next to them, standing a little to the side, observing them. “This is the moment, Lydia, that you realize you've been tracked and caught. He’s been watching you.”

Aiden wiggles an eyebrow at her and Lydia fights back a smile. 

“Focus,” Peter says softly, and she jolts like she's been electrocuted. “Lydia,” he says. “This is a very important moment. Are you listening?”

She glances at Peter and nods. “I’m listening.”

“Very good. Up until now we've just been playing. You're a little girl, you're naive, you're having fun. But you're all alone and you're in the middle of the forest and now there's a wolf, right in front of you. What would you do? What's your first instinct?”

Lydia glances up at Aiden, trying to see him the way Peter wants her to, like something dangerous, a predator, the bad guy. “Run?”

She looks at Peter to see if she got it right and almost collapses in relief when she sees the little smile on his face. “That's right,” he says. “Good girl. That's exactly what you're going to do.”

*

[Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533255556717) is walking out of the gym Tuesday night after doing an hour of Pilates when she sees [Malia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533255656959) down the hall, leaning up against the wall by one of the practice studios, and standing across from her, one of his hands caressing her check, is Peter, towering over her.

Lydia shrinks back in the doorway and reaches up to pull her earbuds out. They're standing too far away for her to hear what he's saying but Peter's talking to Malia, his free hand braced against the wall right next to her head. Her bag is on the floor by her feet and she's staring over his shoulder at the opposite wall, her expression blank. Peter's hand drifts to her hair and he strokes it, bending down to whisper something in her ear before walking away, going into one of the practice studios further down the hall and slamming the door shut behind him.

Lydia waits until she's sure he's not coming back out before leaving her hiding place and walking down the hall towards Malia. “Hey,” she calls out softly.

Malia twitches, scowling when she sees her. “God, wear a bell or something, are you trying to scare the hell out of me?”

“Malia.” 

“What?”

“Malia, I _saw_ you.”

Malia narrows her eyes at her. “You saw me, what?”

Lydia glances up and down the hallway but there's no one here besides them. “I saw you with Peter.”

Malia scoops her bag up from the floor and slings it over her shoulder. “So? Big deal.”

“Malia.” Lydia leans up against the wall next to her. “Did he” -

“Look, just forget what you saw, okay? It's nothing.” Malia looks hard, shut down, her eyes blank, lips pressed in a tight line.

Lydia thinks about all the rumors she’s heard about him. Peter, holding her chin in his hand, promising her stardom. Maybe Lydia isn't the only girl he made promises to. “Malia, did he - did he _do_ something to you?”

Malia's eyes go wide and then she starts to laugh, harsh and brittle. “You have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Malia” -

“God Lydia, just mind your own business.” Malia spins on her heel and stomps off towards the stairwell, leaving Lydia alone in the hallway, her head spinning, replaying the way Peter had touched Malia's face like she was something infinitely precious, someone beloved.

Someone special.

*

“I'm not feeling it,” Peter drones from the front of the studio. “Do it again.”

[Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533256025958) bites the inside of her cheek and walks back to her starting position. It's Wednesday, late in the afternoon, and she's been working with Peter for over an hour. Aiden isn't here again, it's just the two of them. They're working on the section where she first comes face to face with the wolf, when she's supposed to run away, they've gone over it again and again and again but Peter still isn't satisfied.

Her grey leotard is soaked with sweat, damp strands of hair are escaping her bun, and Lydia’s ribs are beginning to ache. She nods at Peter to indicate that she's ready and starts again as the music begins to play. She only makes it eight counts in before the music cuts out, Lydia stops in place and looks at Peter, who's watching her with his head cocked, one hand stroking his chin.

“The problem,” he says, “is that you're dancing but I don't _feel_ it. You're supposed to be afraid, you're running for your life! I need to feel your fear, Lydia, I need you to make it feel _real_.”

“I can do it again” -

“No.” He waves a dismissive hand at her. “We're not getting anywhere like this.”

Shame rises from deep in her chest and she stares down at the floor, willing herself not to cry.

“We're going to try an exercise,” he announces. “I'm going to help you tap into the fear. Stay there.”

Lydia nods helplessly, frozen in the center of the room, watching as he crosses the studio to walk over by the closed door. She waits, every breath she takes painfully loud in the quiet studio, wondering where Peter is going.

And then the lights go out.

Lydia gasps, disoriented. They're in the basement, the studio doesn't have any windows, the only light source is the faintest glow coming from underneath the door from the hallway.

She can't _see_.

“Do you feel that, Lydia?” Peter's voice carries across the studio to her. “You're trapped, you're in the dark. You can't escape. The only thing you can do is run.”

Her chest tightens as she peels her eyes wide open in the dark, she can't even see him, just the mere suggestion of a shadow to her left. She's afraid to run, she's in her pointe shoes, she could take a header right into the mirror. She takes harsh ragged breaths as the squeak of his tennis shoes echo across the studio.

“Come on Lydia!” His voice is terribly loud in the dark room. “What are you going to do? Just stand there and wait for me to catch you?”

Lydia spins in a circle, arms outstretched, trying to figure out which direction his voice is coming from but she's totally disoriented without her vision. She stumbles back, choking down a sob as she hears footsteps coming closer and closer. She waves her hands in front of her, trying to feel out the space, wildly thinking of how to escape, when arms come around her from behind without warning to hoist her high up in the air and -

_It's a sunny spring afternoon. Lydia's perched high up on Jackson's shoulders during partnering class, arms curved up over her head in high fifth, his right arm wrapped around her thighs. He releases her legs and Lydia falls face first into a fish dive, swinging her legs back around his waist, waiting for him to catch her but she slips right through his hands and plummets to the floor_ -

“Do you feel that, Lydia?” He's holding her body to his chest, her legs dangling off the floor, his mouth so close to the back of her neck she can feel his breath tickling her skin. “Your heart is pounding. You don't know whether to fight me or run away. I could do anything to you right now and you couldn't stop me. This, what you're feeling right now? _This_ is fear. This is what I need to feel from you.”

Everything blurs in her head, Jackson/Peter/Jackson/Peter. She's trapped in a memory, forever falling through space, locked inside her fear.

Exactly what Peter wanted from her. Afraid, a helpless little girl. Prey for the wolf.

His arms suddenly release her and she falls straight down to the ground, bending over into a crouch with her hands flat on the floor, so shocked by her sudden landing that she can't move, curled over into a ball in the dark.

“I think that's enough for today.” he says softly. "Remember how this feels. You'll need to use it." Lydia can hear the soft fall of his footsteps as he walks away. 

The studio lights turn back on and Lydia flinches, covering her face as her eyes burn with the sudden fluorescent glow. There's a slam of a door and when she finally looks up she's alone, Peter's left her here, folded over on the floor of the studio like a broken doll. Lydia presses her forehead to the ground and gasps for air, lunges seizing up in a delayed reaction, eyes stinging with tears. She crawls across the floor over to the mirror where her bag is, opening it with shaking hands. She tugs furiously on the ribbon of her wrap skirt to take it off, digs into her bag for her sweater and yanks it over her head, suddenly freezing, her skin cold and clammy. It takes her three tries to get her pointe shoes off, her trembling fingers slipping over the satin ribbons, crying desperately while she gets the knots untied so she can get the hell out of here.

She trades her pointe shoes for her slippers and stands up, the room immediately spinning. She has to place a hand on the mirror to drag herself over to the door, leaving a trail of sweaty fingerprints across the glass. She pushes the door open and stumbles out into the hallway. It's empty, there's no one here to witness her terror. Lydia walks mindlessly over to the stairwell and begins to climb, shivering in her sweater and tights. She makes it up to the second floor landing before she collapses, pressing her back up against the wall and pulling her knees into her chest. Lydia covers her face in her hands, her mind blank except for a terrible overwhelming fear, and shakes like a captured animal.

“Hey, Lydia.”

She peeks through her fingertips and recoils when she sees blue eyes, thinking of Peter, Jackson, but then she recognizes pale skin and messy curls and she pulls her hands away from her face.

Isaac.

“Hey, you okay?” He's crouched in front of her, a few inches away, a worried expression on his face.

Lydia sniffs furiously and blinks away tears. “I'm fine.”

“Oh yeah, you look _fine_ ,” Isaac drawls.

“Fuck off,” she mumbles.

“Yeah I'd love to, but then Allison would kill me. What's wrong, are you hurt?”

Lydia shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut so she doesn't start crying again. “I just need a minute.”

“Okay.” Isaac doesn't touch her but he stays close, kneeling right in front of her. “Do you want me to call Allison?”

Lydia shakes her head and wipes under her eyes. “I just want to go to bed and pretend today never happened.”

“Bad rehearsal?” he guesses.

She nods, swallowing back a wave of hysterical laughter, _bad_ doesn't even begin to cover it.

Isaac stands up, leaning over her. “Come on, I'll walk you upstairs.”

Lydia blinks up at him. “You don't have to. I'm” -

“Fine, right, whatever.” He holds out his hand to her anyway and after a moment of hesitation Lydia takes it.

Isaac hauls her to her feet and takes her bag without her asking. Lydia can't look at him, afraid she'll break down completely, but Isaac just puts a gentle hand between her shoulder blades and pushes her forward. He walks her all the way up to the fourth floor and down the corridor to the girls’ wing where their rooms are, even through boys are explicitly not allowed in the girls’ dormitory. Lydia takes her bag from him and fishes around for her keys as they approach her door.

Isaac leans up against the wall next to her. “You going to be okay?”

She nods robotically, keys clutched in her fist. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Isaac offers her a shy smile and pats her shoulder lightly before turning around and heading back down the corridor in the direction of the boys’ wing.

Lydia unlocks the door and stumbles into her room, drops her bag by the foot of her bed and goes into the bathroom. In the mirror her skin is paper white, eyes watery and red, strands of hair sticking to her tear-streaked cheeks. She turns the shower on and takes off her sweater, peels off her tights and leotard and climbs into the tub. She turns the water as hot as she can get it and pulls her knees up to her chest, shivering. She sits in the shower for a long time, listening to the ragged sounds of her breath as she swallows back tears, lifting her face up to the water to wash it clean.

She gets out when the water turns cold, grabs a towel and rubs herself dry. She stumbles naked into her room and grabs an oversized tee shirt from her dresser, pulls it on without bothering with a bra or underwear, crawls into her bed and when [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533256134950) comes in a few minutes later that's how she finds her, shivering violently under the covers.

“Hey, what's wrong?” Allison exclaims, hurrying across the small room over to her bed. “Are you sick?”

She can't tell Allison. Allison will freak out and tell someone, probably Scott, who will tell his mother, who will tell Derek, and Lydia will get kicked out of the showcase. She's just a dancer, she's replaceable. Telling someone is too risky, she can't gamble with her future like that. Besides, what would she say? Peter _scared_ her? 

Who would believe her, anyway? It's not like Peter _hurt_ her, and even if he did, he's still an important choreographer, it's still her word against his.

“Migraine,” Lydia whispers.

Allison hums sympathetically. “Do you want me to take you down to see Nurse McCall? She's still here.”

“No,” Lydia croaks. “I just want to sleep.”

“Okay.” Allison brushes Lydia’s hair back from her forehead. “I'm going out to dinner with Scott, do you need anything before I go? Excedrin?”

“I'm okay,” she whispers, and shuts her eyes so she doesn't have to look at Allison while lying to her.

“Okay. Do you want me to bring you back something from the cafe?”

“Sure,” Lydia whispers, because she knows it makes Allison feel better to have something to do, like she's helping.

“Okay. Text me if you need something, I'll be back in a few hours.”

“Okay.” Lydia manages to give Allison a ghost of a smile. “Thanks.”

Allison smiles back and blows her a kiss as she leaves the room, locking Lydia in. Lydia reaches up and hooks her phone up to her speakers, turns on her Tchaikovsky playlist and shuts her eyes. She drifts off into a half-sleep for awhile, huddled under the covers, floating as time passes her by. She presses her face into the pillow, reliving it over and over again - Jackson dropping her, the look of horror on his face before he'd walked away and covered his eyes with his hands, refusing to look at what he'd done. The panic of having all the air smacked out of her lungs, breathing through fire, broken and helpless on the floor.

The music suddenly stops, replaced with the repetitive trilling ring of an incoming call. Lydia twists up to retrieve her phone where it's resting on her desk, letting out a dry sob when she sees the name _Stiles_ on the screen. She assigned that selfie he sent her the night before evaluations as his contact photo and she traces his face with the tip of one finger as her phone rings until it goes to voicemail. A minute later her phone dings with a new voicemail notification, Lydia holds her breath and presses play.

_Hey Lydia, it's Stiles. I just ran into Scott and Allison at the cafe and we talked about seeing a movie on Saturday, I though if you're not too busy maybe you wanted to come? Let me know. Or Allison, whatever. Okay, um, you're probably in rehearsal right now but I'll uh, I'll talk to you later I guess, and maybe see you Saturday, you know, if you're free. Have a good night._

Lydia puts her phone back down on her desk and cries into her pillow until she falls asleep. 

Allison wakes her up a few hours later when she comes back from dinner, shutting their door and locking it with a gentle _click_. “Hey, I brought you back a salad.”

“I’m not hungry,” Lydia mumbles, sleepy and disoriented, and rolls over onto her other side.

“That's okay, I'll put in the fridge for you.”

Lydia can hear Allison moving around in the dark, opening their mini-fridge to put away her food, putting her purse down on her desk before going into their bathroom to change. Lydia rubs her temples, her eyes feel hot and achy from crying. It's like waking up into a nightmare, her heart still pounding with adrenaline, body tense like she's waiting for gravity to fail her again and flip her off her bed. Allison comes back out, tiptoeing across the room to kneel by the edge of Lydia’s bed.

“Are you feeling any better?” she whispers.

Lydia swallows down a fresh wave of tears. “Not really.”

“You want me to rub your back?”

“Okay.”

Allison climbs into bed next to her, pulling the comforter up over their shoulders, and Lydia falls back asleep to the soft warm touch of Allison's fingertips trailing up and down over her spine.


	12. the lost girls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay darlings, I know the last chapter was rough so grab yourself some well deserved chocolate or the comfort food of your choice, take a few deep breaths and repeat after me: this fic has a happy ending.

Lydia wakes up in the morning to the alarm on Allison’s phone going off. At some point after Lydia fell asleep last night Allison must have gone to her own bed because her head pokes out from under her mint green comforter, one slim arm reaching out blindly to turn off the alarm.

Lydia rubs her eyes, they feel achy and tight, like she's been crying. One glance at the digital clock on her desk tells her that it's ten to eight, she must have forgotten to set her alarm last night -

It slams into her, like being pulled under by a wave, the memory of what happened with Peter in rehearsal threatening to suffocate her. She swallows back a wave of nausea, remembering how it felt, trapped in his arms in the dark, completely helpless, shivering with fear, her legs dangling in the air like a marionette, a doll for him to control.

“Oh good,” Allison says, stretching her arms over her head and kicking off her comforter. “You slept in.”

“Yeah.” Lydia's voice sounds rusty. She crosses her arms over her chest, she's _freezing_.

“Are you feeling better?”

Lydia swings her legs over the side of the bed, resisting the impulse to lie back down and burrow under the covers. “I don't know. A little, I guess.”

Allison frowns, her lovely face crinkling up. “Maybe you should go see Nurse McCall.”

“I can't miss technique.”

“You can't dance if you're sick,” Allison counters.

“I'm not sick.” Lydia forces herself to get up and walk around to her dresser to grab her leotard and tights. “It's just a migraine.”

“Okay,” Allison says hesitantly, standing up to make her bed.

Lydia escapes to the bathroom, peels off her tee shirt and brushes her teeth naked in front of the sink, splashes cold water over her face and moisturizes. She dabs concealer all over her eyes where the skin is swollen and red, puts on blush because her pallor is terrible, applies silvery highlighter to the corners of her eyes and white eyeliner to her waterline. Her hair is a tangled mess, Lydia sprays detangler through it and brushes out the knots, pulls it into a tight ponytail at the nape of her neck and twists it around the base to create a bun, sliding in bobby pins until her hair is tightly pinned up. She pulls on her leotard and tights and leaves the bathroom, digs an oversized sweater and a pair of [leggings](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533256863063) out of her closet and pulls them on.

“I'm just gonna change, wait for me and we can go to breakfast together?” Allison asks, a bundle of clothes clutched to her chest.

“Sure.” Lydia sits down on the floor and pulls on her leg warmers over her leggings because she's still cold, goes through her bag to make sure she's got everything, and laces up her Nikes.

[Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533256970545) comes out a few minutes later, her hair twisted up in two mini buns on the top of her head. She jams her feet into her Adidas, ties her laces and grabs her dance bag. “Ready?”

Lydia follows her down to the cafeteria, her head buzzing. It's like she's underwater, everything around her feels strange and distorted. She gets in line behind Allison, fills a mug with coffee and pours in two packets of stevia and a few drops of half and half. Allison pours herself a bowl of some kind of sprouted grain cereal, tops it with sliced bananas, strawberries, and skim milk. Lydia follows her, numb, unable to smile back at Aiden when he catches her eye from across the cafeteria. They get to the line to have their cards swiped when Allison stops, turning around to stare pointedly at the mug in Lydia's hands.

“What are you getting?” Allison asks her. “You can't just have coffee.”

Lydia shrugs, her stomach twisting at the thought of eating. “I'm not hungry.”

“You do know we're actually not allowed to skip meals, right?” Allison reminds her.

Of course she knows, it's one of the first rules they learned as level ones, they can't take class if they skip a meal outright. 

“Seriously,” Allison says. “I think you should go see Nurse McCall.”

“I'm fine, it's just a headache.” Lydia walks back over to the bread selection and toasts a single slice of whole wheat, spreads the thinnest layer of butter of it and comes back to Allison, who's holding her spot in line.

They get their ID’s swiped and walk over to a small table under one of the windows. Lydia sips her coffee while Allison eats her cereal. Lydia picks apart her toast into little pieces, sucks on them until they're soft enough to swallow. It tastes like cardboard on her tongue, lumps of bread stuck in her throat. She drinks a glass of water and presses the cold glass to her forehead.

“Are you sure it's just a headache?” Allison asks. “You don't look that good.”

Lydia puts down the glass in favor of her coffee and tightens her hands around the mug. “What do you mean?”

Allison reaches out and presses the back of her hand to Lydia's cheek. “You're really pale.”

“I'm always pale.”

Allison rolls her eyes. “Paler than usual. And you never had dinner last night, why aren't you starving?”

“Nausea is a common side effects of migraines.”

“Do you feel like you're going to throw up?”

Allison looks so concerned that Lydia wants to chuck her glass at her, just to get her to stop. “I said I was feeling better.”

“You said a _little_ better,” Allison corrects.

“You do know I have a real mother two rooms away, right?”

Allison raises an eyebrow. “Would you like me to let her know you're not feeling well?”

“You're hilarious,” Lydia deadpans. 

Allison swirls her spoon around her cereal, a familiar look of worry on her face. “You said you were going to try.”

Lydia flinches. “That isn't what this is about, I really do just have a headache.”

Across the cafeteria she sees Malia sitting at a table, stirring cinnamon into her oatmeal, looking small and dejected, obviously ignoring whatever Cora is saying as she chatters along next to her.

Did Peter do the same thing to her? Lull her into a sense of complacency with pretty words and lofty promises before showing his cards, his absolute power and control over her, his ability to break her down to her most fundamental ugly parts - her fear, her weakness, her helplessness.

“Lydia.” Allison is staring at her. “Are you sure that's all it is? A headache?”

Lydia finishes her coffee and wipes her fingers on a napkin. “Come on,” she murmurs. “I need to warm up a little before class starts.”

They take the elevator up to the third floor but when they get to Studio B there's a sign taped over the door: _Level 8 Girl’s Technique will be taught in Studio D today_

They go down the hall to Studio D and Lydia's heart sinks when they walk in. It's a mixed class, a few of the boys are already here and Derek’s apparently teaching for Marin again, leaning up against the piano going over something with the accompanist. Just her fucking luck, she could get away with taking Marin’s class like this, she can dance for Marin in her sleep, but Derek is different. Derek's the future director of HBC, she has one bad class with him and it could destroy her chances of making it into the company.

She wonders suddenly, sitting down with Allison to get their slippers on, if Derek knows, about Peter. He's Derek's uncle, Derek grew up dancing for him - so did Laura. 

His prima, trained from the time she could walk, his shining star until she crashed and burned.

What did Peter do with her, _to_ her, to get her to dance the way she did? Lydia remembers what he said last night, before he turned off the lights and trapped her like an animal, alone and frightened, defenseless: _I’m going to help you_.

Did he _help_ Laura too?

Lydia presses the soles of her feet together and flaps her bent legs like butterfly wings, sitting on the floor of the studio next to Allison but she's not really here at all, she's locked in a dark basement, alone, afraid, falling like Alice down the rabbit hole, small and stunned. Danny and Ethan come in and start moving barres from the back wall to the center of the studio. Allison stands up and Lydia gets up to trail after her, almost walking right into Aiden.

“Hey.” He catches her by the shoulder, shooting her a concerned glance. “You okay?”

“I'm fine.” She shrugs under the weight of his hand and follows Allison over to one of the barres, laying her left hand lightly over it to start working on relevés.

In front of her Allison rolls down and lets her head drop, dangling upside down to stretch her back. Lydia continues with relevés, watching herself in the mirror. She can see Jackson cross behind her to go to the other barre and Lydia exhales sharply through her nose. Malia comes in with Kira, Cora and Erica right behind them; they all dump their stuff next to Lydia and Allison’s bags and get their slippers on before coming over to the barres. Kira and Malia get behind Lydia and Allison on their barre, Erica joins Boyd at the other barre and Cora takes a place in between her and Jackson. 

Isaac ambles over to them, eyes angling towards the open spot in front of Allison. Lydia’s chest tightens, remembering suddenly: Isaac, finding her on the second story landing hyperventilating, Isaac walking her to her room, asking if she'd be okay.

Isaac could wreck everything. 

His eyes go to hers and she can see it, his concern is written all over his face. “Hey Lydia, how” -

“Keep walking, Lahey,” she snaps. 

It happened almost in slow motion - his face crumples up with shocked hurt before smoothing out into a mask of indifference. “Whatever.”

Isaac turns on his heel and stalks across the studio to the other barre and promptly turns his back on her. 

Next to her Allison has her palm pressed against her forehead, her mouth open in shock. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she asks, her voice cracking.

Lydia looks past Allison's shoulder at her reflection in the mirror. She looks hard, brittle. Like her perfect porcelain skin is about to crack into pieces. “I told you, I have a headache. I really don't feel up to listening to anyone talk right now.”

“Fine.” Allison raises her chin defiantly. “Then I'll go talk to him over there.”

She stomps away to join Isaac at the other barre. Lydia watches Allison lay her hand gently on Isaac’s shoulder as she whispers something into his ear. Isaac turns his head and looks right at Lydia before murmuring something to Allison. Whatever he says makes Allison smile and look away before lightly smacking his arm.

Lydia swallows back a wave of shame and turns around to face the mirror. The girl staring back at her is a stranger - she looks like a ghost, an apparition from a fairy tale, Sleeping Beauty after being pricked by the needle, poison in her veins, darkness descending over her.

“Okay, let's get started.” Derek comes to the front of the studio and stands in between the barres. “Pliés, demi, demi, grand, in first, second, fourth, and fifth.”

The music starts and Lydia sinks into her pliés. She can't focus on her technique this morning, she can't think about anything except getting through class without making a major mistake. She relies on muscle memory; her body knows what to do, how to move to the music even though she's so distracted she barely hears it. 

Derek gives them a tendu exercise, first slow, then fast. “Come on, it's morning, look alive!” he shouts cheerfully over the piano. “Time to wake up people!”

Lydia moves through the barre portion of class in a daze, half-amazed Derek doesn't stop her. She's barely holding on, it's like her mind and her body have completely separated. Dissociation, she thinks vaguely, watching herself do battement en croix, lifting her leg up from her hip.

When they get off the barre the boys move them to the back of the studio without having to be asked and they all congregate in the center, watching Derek. Lydia glances at the clock, it's a little after ten now, she has under an hour left and then she gets a short break before pointe where she can escape to the bathroom and at least attempt to pull herself together.

“Alright, spread out, we’ll start with an adagio,” Derek informs them. There's an ease to him, the way he teaches, if Lydia wasn't totally mindfucked from last night she'd be enjoying this, studying under one of the best former principal dancers in the country.

The nephew of a man who trapped her in a dark room and did things to her that she'll never be able to explain.

“We’ll begin in fifth, left in front, croisé devant. Développé to the front, rond de jambe en l’air to arabesque. Penché, lower to fourth. Double pirouette en dedan, close to fifth. Right leg comes to attitude derrière, promenade, bring it through passé and développé a la second, lower to sur le coup-de-pied, pas de bourré to close to fifth, and let’s see, how about a little cambre, don't forget the port de bras, to finish it out. Erica, would you mind demonstrating?”

Everyone backs away to give Erica space in the center. For once she looks serious, aware that Derek is giving her a priceless opportunity to show him what she can do. Erica steps into fifth position with her left leg in front, facing the right corner of the studio. The music begins, a slow tinkling eight count, and Erica flutters her arms in preparation before she begins.

She lifts her left leg up, knee bent, slowly straightening it as she raises it in front of her. She circles her leg around in the air for the rond de jambe en l’air, bringing it behind herself for the arabesque. Erica dips forward into the penché, her left leg raised high up in the air. She comes up slowly, keeping her shoulders squared, and lowers her leg back to fourth position for the pirouettes, two clean revolutions, before closing into fifth position. She lifts her right leg back, knee bent in attitude derrière and does the promenade, a slow turn, by inching her heel around, revolving on the ball of her foot. Erica brings her right leg up, knee bent, and extends it out to the side before she lowers her leg, wrapping her right foot behind her left ankle. She does a little pas de bourré to the side and closes her feet in fifth. She finishes with the cambre, arching backwards, her arms going back with the top half of her body over her head, before slowly coming back up and lowering her arms with a little stylized flutter.

“Very nice,” Derek praises, and Erica's face lights up. “Okay, let's have the ladies in the front line, men behind them. Eight counts to prepare, twice through.”

They all rush around to get into their lines as the music plays again, Lydia moves forward to stand between Allison and Cora and gets into position. She floats through the adagio, incapable of pushing herself, her goal simply to complete it without falling over. She gets dizzy when she dips down for the penché, thinking of lying on the floor in the practice studio, her face pressed to the ground. She almost falls out of her pirouette and she bites the inside of her cheek, hard, the pain grounding her as she moves through the promenade and the second développé. She stumbles through the pas de bourré and leans back for the cambre, vaguely aware of the stretch in her ribs as she comes back up. They repeat it again and she pulls up through the pirouette, she doesn't fall out of the turn but she cheats coming down, opening up early because she just can't do it today, she's barely following the choreography.

_Your mind will quit before your body does_ , it's something Marin has told them in class multiple times, but today it feels like her body might quit regardless.

“Alright, moving on,” Derek calls out. “Petit allegro. Fifth position, left in front. Glissad, jeté, coupé, little step, another jeté, pas de chat, pas de bourré, entrechat, soubresaut, repeat on the other side. Take a minute to mark and then we’ll begin.”

They all spread out across the floor to go over the jump combination, Lydia walks over to the right side of the studio, near the bags, lightheaded, where she can mark it away from everyone else. She steps through the glissade and the jetés, lifts her legs with bent knees to walk through the pas de chat. She does the pas de bourré on demi pointe and comes down to fifth, beats her right foot behind her left to mark the entrechat. She skips the soubresaut altogether, a quick jump that starts in fifth, going up in the air and slightly forwards to land in fifth again, doing a relevé instead.

“Why aren't you marking?” When Lydia looks up Derek is right in front of her, arms crossed over his heather grey vee neck.

“I am,” she whispers, her heart suddenly pounding.

Derek lifts an eyebrow. “Show me.”

She looks around, everyone is busy marking the combination, no one seems to have noticed that Derek's attention is on her. Lydia dutifully steps into fifth and begins, her breath caught in her chest. She does the glissad and the jetés, does a pas de chat and accidentally adds on a piqué tour, stepping out onto demi pointe with her right leg, then her left; she brings her right leg up to passé as she does a lame duck turn, slipping right into Peter's choreography without any conscious realization that she's doing it.

It's like even her body knows where she really is, trapped down there in the basement on the cold floor of the practice studio for eternity, the things Peter did to her imprinted on her muscles and bones.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, blinking furiously as her eyes fill with tears. She steps back to fifth to start over from the beginning but then the walls begin to spin and she wobbles in place, squeezing her eyes shut for a second to center herself, but when she opens them everything blurs into a sea of white and grey and she's falling, she must be falling because she can't feel the floor under her feet -

“Lydia.” A warm hand curls around her left forearm. “Look at me.”

She slowly brings her head up to look at him and gets caught in his light eyes, his expression calm and oddly reassuring. “Good,” he says in a low voice, two fingers pressed against the inside of her wrist, he's taking her pulse. “Just keep looking at me. Did you eat before class?”

She sways on her feet, obediently staring up at his face, and nods, her brain doing a sickening flash of Jackson/Peter/Isaac/Derek at the familiar sensation of being trapped in eyes like the color of the ocean.

“Did you take something?” he asks quietly. 

She blinks at him, dumbfounded, and shakes her head.

“Are you sure?” he presses. “Tramadol, Vicodin, Percocet” -

“I don't do that,” she whispers. “I'm fine, I'm sorry” -

“Don't lie to me,” he says sternly. “Grab your things, go wait for me in my office.”

She hears him but she can't get the words to make sense. “What?”

“You're done, I don't know what's wrong with you but you can't take my class like this.”

Lydia exhales shakily, choking back a small sob. He's kicking her out of class? “No, please, I'm sorry” -

“This isn't a negotiation.” Derek releases her wrist and it takes all her strength not to fall to the floor. “Go on, I'll meet you up there when class is over.”

She can hear it in his tone - no amount of pleading or apologizing will get her out of this.

She fucked up.

It's just like last year - one fall and now everything's ruined.

She can feel herself nod at Derek like her head is about to detach from her neck. She stumbles over to her bag, scoops it up and walks quickly across the studio, eyes on the floor, and slips out the door. As soon as she's in the hallway she slides down to the floor and presses her forehead to her knees, Derek's words echoing in her head: _you're done_.

She yanks off her ballet slippers and puts them in her bag, peels off her tights and exchanges them for her leggings and sweater. She puts her Nikes on and wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater before getting up and walking down the hall to the elevator. She goes down to the second floor and walks slowly, reading the signs on the doors until she finds one that reads _Derek Hale, Assistant Director_. Lydia runs her fingers over the title, wondering how he wrangled Marin into giving it to him when he's only here for this semester, why he'd want to be teaching at all when he could be working with any company he wanted, or hell, taking a vacation before HBC’s fall season starts.

Lydia puts her hand on the brass doorknob but when she tries to turn it, it's locked.

She sits down on the floor, checking the time on her phone. She still has half an hour before technique is over. She digs her headphones out of her bag, slips the earbuds in and plugs the cord into her phone. She picks an episode of This American Life at random, hits play, and lies down right there on the floor with her bag under her head, pulls her knees into her chest and closes her eyes. 

At some point there's nothing left to do but surrender.

When she hears the faint ding of the elevator from down the hall half an hour later she jolts, yanking her earbuds out and jumping up from the floor. Derek appears, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans for his keys when he spots her.

“Sorry about that,” he says briskly, unlocks the door and gestures for her to go inside. “Take a seat.”

Lydia shuffles over to the single chair in front of his desk and eases down onto it, dropping her bag down at her feet. Derek walks around behind the desk and sits down, folds his arms on his desk and gives her a penetrating look. “So. How are showcase rehearsals going?”

Lydia blinks at him, so surprised that her mind goes blank. “They're fine.”

“Fine?” Derek lifts an incredulous eyebrow. “You're working with one of the most renowned choreographers in the world and all you have to say is _fine?_ ”

Lydia clenches her hands into fists, wondering if this is some kind of test. Derek has to know about Peter, what he's really like, the things he does to his dancers. How could he not? “He's… different.”

Derek snorts. “That's one way to put it.” When Lydia doesn't say anything else Derek leans back in his chair, hands flat on the desk. “Dancers often find him difficult to work with.”

“Maybe a little,” she concedes, cautious.

“Have you had any problems so far?” Derek inquires, his tone light, like maybe he thinks she doesn't understand what he's really asking. “You had a rehearsal last night, didn't you?”

She nods, her fingers going numb, like frostbite. “No. What kinds of problems?”

Derek's eyes go hazy and distant. “He can be very demanding. Most choreographers are, by the way, but Peter, he has a tendency to - push, sometimes. He doesn't always know when to stop. Some dancers can't take it. Being pushed like that.”

“Oh,” she murmurs.

Derek sighs, reaching for a pen and tapping it against the surface of the desk. “Peter's here on a trial basis only. After what happened last fall - I, well, Marin and I, we had some reservations about bringing him in.”

“Then why did you?” she asks before she can stop herself.

Derek’s mouth twists as he opens a drawer and pulls out a notepad. “He's my uncle. It's - a complicated situation.” He scribbles something down on the paper before ripping the sheet off the pad and folding it in half, and pushes it across the desk to her. “Take this down to Nurse McCall, I’m going to need her to clear you before you can go back to class.”

Lydia blinks rapidly. “Why?”

His eyes scan over her and even though she's dressed it makes Lydia feel naked. “Because I'm not blind,” he says shortly. “Or stupid.”

Lydia picks the note up and bends down to shoulder her bag. “Okay,” she mumbles, and starts to walk away.

“Lydia.” 

She stops halfway from the door, turning back to look at Derek. “Yes?”

“You dance that way again in class and we're going to be having a much different kind of meeting. Understand?”

She nods, unable to speak, half afraid she's going to break down and starting crying right here.

“Alright.” Derek gives her a flash of a smile and Lydia suddenly understands why half the girls in the company are rumored to be in love with him. “Go on, then.”

Lydia turns and walks out of his office, dismissed, managing to make it to the elevator before her tears start to fall. She inhales furiously, poking her tongue into the place where she bit the inside of her cheek earlier, and swallows back the rest of her tears by the time the elevator makes it down to the lobby. She walks down the hallway and turns left at the stairwell to go down the back hallway to the nurse’s office. Nurse McCall is sitting at her desk in front of her computer screen, wearing a pink button down and a pair of jeans with a lab coat layered over her shirt.

“Lydia!” Nurse McCall gives her a warm smile and spins around in her chair. “What can I do for you, sweetheart?”

“Derek wanted me to give you this.” Lydia hands her the note and watches her read it, one eyebrow shooting up.

“Do you have any idea why Derek wants me to give you a physical in the middle of the semester?”

Lydia shrugs, fiddling with the strap of her dance bag. “I had a headache during class.”

“Mmhm.” Nurse McCall looks like she doesn't believe her at all and Lydia represses the urge to take the note out of her hands to read it, wishing she'd had the urge to snoop before she got here and lost the chance. “Okay, shoes off, hop on the scale.”

Lydia kneels down and takes off her Nikes, waiting while Nurse McCall opens her file on the computer before she walks over to the medical scale and zeroes it out. “Up you go.”

Lydia steps onto the scale and stands there while Nurse McCall slides the bars around until it comes to her weight. Lydia stares at the number, shocked, she honestly hadn't expected it. Maybe Allison is right, maybe Lydia is getting out of control, because how else could this have happened?

“You've lost six pounds since your physical in January.” Nurse McCall looks extremely displeased. “Were you aware of that?”

Lydia shakes her head, unable to tear her gaze away from the numbers on the scale, stunned. “No.”

Nurse McCall’s hand is gentle on her shoulder. “Get on the table for me, let's check you out.”

Lydia hops on obediently, watching as Nurse McCall lifts her stethoscope and puts it in her ears. “Deep breath for me.” Lydia complies and Nurse McCall moves the stethoscope around and nods. “Lungs sound good. Any problems with the ribs?”

Lydia shrugs. “They get sore sometimes.”

“Hmm.” She nods and rolls up Lydia's sleeve to take her blood pressure. “It's a little low but that's normal for you. Any dizziness, lightheadedness, anything like that?”

“Maybe a little,” she confesses.

Nurse McCall puts her hands under Lydia's jaw to feel her lymph nodes. “What did you have for breakfast?”

“Toast.”

“You need to be eating protein, toast isn't enough calories, Lydia, I know you know that.”

“I had a headache,” she grouses. “I wasn't hungry.”

“Then you shouldn't have gone to class before seeing me, I wouldn't have cleared you.” She grabs Lydia's face gently with one hand, peering into her eyes. “You look very pale, are you cold? You feel cold.”

“I don't know.” She feels totally exposed in front of Nurse McCall, she can't lie her way out of this, not when her body keeps betraying her. “Maybe I have a virus.”

“Maybe.” Nurse McCall sounds doubtful. “I want you to take it easy today. Get some rest, eat a real meal. You look like you need it.”

“But I'll miss variations.”

“I'll let Marin know, she'll understand. If you start feeling dizzy or weak, anything abnormal, I want you to come right back here, got it?”

Lydia licks her lips, they feel annoyingly dry. “What about tomorrow, can I take class?”

“As long as you feel okay and you eat breakfast, a _real_ meal. Do you need me to make you a copy of your meal plan the nutritionist gave you? I should have it in your file.”

“I know what's on my meal plan,” she mutters. 

“Hey.” Nurse McCall bends down to look her right in the eyes. “Is there anything else going on that you want to tell me about?”

Lydia's eyes burn with tears as she shakes her head. “I'm just stressed out about the showcase.”

Nurse McCall’s expression softens and she cups Lydia's cheek with one hand, wonderfully warm and maternal. “You are a beautiful dancer and you're going to be wonderful in the showcase, but only if you take care of yourself, do you understand me?”

Lydia presses her lips together and nods, fighting back the tears, and Nurse McCall smiles and pats her cheek affectionately. “Alright, you are dismissed, my dear. Go eat lunch, okay? Take a nap, even. Nurse’s orders.”

Lydia sniffs and hops down from the table. “Okay, I will.” She puts on her shoes and manages a little wave goodbye as she shoulders her bag and walks out.

She starts crying almost immediately, one hand pressed against her mouth as she walks quickly down the back hallway and hooks a right when she hits the stairwell. She needs some air, she needs to go outside and cry where no one can see her. She's so focused on her goal of getting the hell out of here that she isn't looking and walks right into Scott, rebounding off his chest and spinning around him.

“Hey, Lydia, wait!” he calls out but she breaks into a run, moving past the cafeteria and the closed office door, and pushes the glass entrance double doors open.

She stumbles down the sidewalk and curls over the stone wall, tucking her chin to her chest as she breaks into sobs, digging her fingers into the smooth stones to keep herself from collapsing on the sidewalk. Yesterday she was one of the best dancers in her level, even with her injury, she was excited to have a part in the most important piece in the showcase, she thought she was finally going to get everything she wanted, everything she's been working her ass off for.

She sacrificed so much, for years, just to end up here, barely holding on. 

What if she can't do it? What if she's one of the girls that Derek talked about, the ones that couldn't handle being pushed? Has she really gotten this far, bled and starved and fought just to discover that she isn't _tough_ enough? Has she been paying attention to the wrong thing? While she was unilaterally focused on turning her body into a weapon, fast and strong and flexible, did she let herself get soft inside, lose her grit, her inner tenacity? Is that possible?

Or maybe she simply was never good enough. Maybe she's just not enough.

“Hey, Lydia!” She looks up, startled, and covers her mouth with her hands when she realizes that Stiles’ Jeep is parked right in front of her on the street and he's running up the sidewalk to her. “Hey, Lydia, what's wrong?”

“I'm fine,” she sobs, stumbling back against the wall. “Please, just leave me alone, I'll be fine.”

“Lydia, you're not fine, you're crying, tell me what's wrong!” He looks worried, backpack slung over one shoulder, hands held out to her.

“I said I'm fine,” she cries, tears streaming down her face. “What are you even doing here, anyway?”

“I'm just dropping off Scott, I have to go back to school for an AP History test that starts in like seventeen minutes so could you please tell me what's wrong now?”

“Just leave me alone!” she sobs, spreading her hands over her face because she can't do this, she can let him see her this way.

“Lydia come on, just tell me why you're crying.” He tries to pull her hand away from her face with gentle fingers and Lydia recoils instantly, thinking of Peter, arms coming around her in the dark.

“Don't touch me!” she shrieks, wrapping her arms protectively around her body.

Stiles takes a few steps back, his face going white. “Lydia, I'm sorry, I just” -

It's like falling, that feeling that she's lost everything, knowing she's about to crash and unable to stop herself. “Let’s get one thing straight,” she snarls. “You and I are _not_ dating, you're not my boyfriend. Just because we made out one time doesn't give you the right to touch me whenever you want!”

“I'm, I'm sorry,” he stammers, looking horrified. “I didn't mean to” -

“Just forget it.” She turns around and walks away from him, all the way around the side of the building, until she's out of sight, and he doesn't stop her.

Lydia presses her face into the brick wall, her body heaving with wordless sobs. She feels toxic, remembering the way she'd verbally bitch slapped Isaac this morning, how hurt he’d looked, and now Stiles. 

_You ruin everything!_

Maybe Jackson was right about her. Maybe she does ruin everything. Maybe she's everything he claimed she was the night they broke up, the names he called her so cruel and unexpected: dead weight, broken inside, worthless, not good enough. 

She stays outside until she finally stops crying. She doesn't want to go in the front way and risk walking by her mother in the office so she continues walking along the side of the building until she gets to the back. She wipes her nose with the edge of her hand as she walks towards the back entrance and runs right into [Malia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533257057554), who jumps about a foot in the air, scowling.

“Why are you always sneaking up on me?” Malia complains.

“I wasn't.” Lydia takes Malia in, the fact that she isn't carrying any of her stuff and she's wearing just a tee shirt even though it's overcast and barely over sixty degrees today. “Are you going for a run?”

“Yeah.”

“But variations is in an hour.”

Malia roll her eyes. “I know what time variations starts, Lydia.”

“Were you going to run in the woods?”

“Don't worry about it, I know where I'm going.”

“Malia” -

“Just back off, okay? You look like shit, by the way.”

“I'm aware, thanks,” Lydia snaps. “Seriously, we're not allowed in the preserve, you're going to get into trouble.”

“If I were you I'd worry about myself.” Malia flips her ponytail over her shoulder and turns away to cross the parking lot.

Lydia watches Malia weave through the cars until she reaches the other side of the parking lot and disappears into the woods. Lydia pulls open the back door and goes inside, takes the stairs down to the basement. She waits for it, expecting that flash of panic to hit her, but the basement is well lit and it's the middle of the day, she's able to walk right into the gym without having another meltdown. It's empty right now, everyone is probably finishing up lunch. Lydia gets on a treadmill and starts up the episode of This American Life she was listening to earlier when she was waiting for Derek. She walks for over an hour, until everything fades away - getting kicked out of class, her meeting with Derek, Nurse McCall’s well-intentioned lecture, Stiles. By the time she gets off she feels exhausted, empty, her head finally quiet.

Lydia goes back up to her room and takes a shower, washes her hair and blow dries it. She changes into a clean pair of leggings and a [sweater](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533257211527), opens the mini fridge and takes out the plastic container Allison brought back from the cafe for her last night. It's a Greek salad, romaine, onion, cherry tomatoes, kalamata olives, crumbled feta cheese and grilled chicken cubes. Lydia opens the little packet of dressing and carefully drizzles it over the salad, shuts the container and gives it a good shake before opening it back up. She eats with a plastic fork from the stash she and Allison keep on top of the mini fridge, sitting on the floor in silence, listening to the sound of herself chew.

She manages to finish the entire thing and she leaves the container balanced at the top of the brown paper bag they use for recycling so Allison will be able to see. Lydia makes a little noise of satisfaction, at least she managed to do one thing right today. It's a hollow victory, given the context of the day, but a victory nonetheless, at the very least it'll get Allison off her back, if Allison is even talking to her, given the way Lydia treated Isaac this morning. Lydia crawls onto her bed and grabs her laptop from her desk, turns it on and goes to her internet history, pulling up the video of Laura dancing Cinderella again.

Lydia starts it over from the beginning, staring at Laura's face instead of her body, watching every little micro-expression. She looks so beautiful here, but also sad and lonely, because that's the role, an abused little girl, a glorified slave. It feels so real when she watches it - Laura's innocence, her pain, her loneliness.

How did she do it, express emotion like this, so that it bleeds out of her every pore?

What did Peter do to her, to get her to be capable of this - what did he teach her, how far did he push her, for her to be able to get to that place of transcendence? Could it be worth it, to be able to dance like that, look like that, move like that? 

It wasn't though, not for Laura, not in the end. 

Did Peter push her right off that cliff? Or was it something else? Grief, drugs, unbalanced brain chemistry. All of the above?

Laura's dead and Lydia will never know really what happened to the girl she idolizes, still, even now.

[Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533257282224) comes back from class a little before six, pushing through the door and dropping her dance bag onto the floor by her desk. “Hey, what happened to you, did you go see Nurse McCall?”

“Yeah,” she says carefully, remembering the expression on Allison’s face when Lydia snubbed Isaac this morning, like Lydia had hurt _her_ feelings.

“Good,” Allison says. “Come down to dinner with me?” Like all is forgiven.

“Okay.” Allison waits while Lydia puts on her Nikes and meets her over by the door.

They go out into the hallway and walk over by the elevator, where [Kira](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533257351991) is waiting. “Hey,” she calls out. “Did you see her?”

“Sorry.” Allison shakes her head. 

“Oh no.” Kira looks worried. 

“What's going on?” Lydia asks curiously.

“Malia skipped variations,” Kira explains. “And she left her phone and wallet on her bed, I thought she'd be back by now.”

“Wait, she never came back from her run?” Lydia asks.

Allison frowns. “How do you know she went out for a run?”

“I ran into her after Nurse McCall let me go, but that was hours ago. She went into the preserve, she said not to worry about it.”

“Shoot.” Kira scrunches up her forehead. “Maybe she got lost. I'd go look for her but I'm supposed to assistant teach a level two class in like, fifteen minutes.”

Lydia shoots Allison a pointed look and Allison groans, pulling out her phone. “Fine, but I'm texting Scott to meet us, I don't think we should go out there by ourselves.”

“Thank you so much!” Kira exclaims. The elevator dings and they all walk in together, Kira hits the 3 and the L buttons and the doors slide shut. “I don't know what's gotten into her lately. She's always had an attitude but this is crazy, if Derek finds out where she went he's going to kill her.”

Kira gets out on the third floor and Allison and Lydia take the elevator down to the lobby. Scott’s waiting for them by the back door, wearing a navy blue zip up hoodie over a grey tee shirt, and jeans. He and Allison kiss hello and Scott shoots Lydia a look, like, _what the hell was that about earlier?_ , and she flushes and looks away. 

They go outside and cross the parking lot, step into the trees and onto the worn down path that runs through the preserve, and begin to walk. “When did you see her again?” Allison asks.

Lydia rubs the ends of her hair between her fingertips. “Around lunchtime.”

“Shit.” Allison looks around, like maybe they'll get lucky and Malia is hanging out right here, waiting for them. “That's not good.”

“Maybe she's hurt,” Scott suggests.

“Let's hope not, if Derek finds out she was back here she's going to be in major trouble,” Lydia comments. “The woods are off limits. Like Hogwarts.”

“Why would she even want to run out here?” Allison ducks before a branch can smack her in the face. “It's so creepy.”

Lydia shrugs. “Maybe she just wanted to be alone.”

The three of them follow the path deep into the woods but there's no sign of Malia anywhere, just dirt and trees and the occasional twitter of birds. “Oh wow, look,” Allison says eventually, pointing.

Off in the distance is a cleared space of land, full of rose bushes and wildflowers, with a large iron wrought gate fencing the plants in. “What is that?” Scott asks, squinting.

“It's where the Hale house used to be,” Lydia explains. “After Laura died they knocked it down and turned it into a garden.”

The three of them approach the fence and stop, the silence heavy between them as they gaze out at the garden. They must have been walking for longer than Lydia realized, the Hale house is on the other side of the preserve, near the main road. It's how Laura got here the night she died, she drove down from San Francisco after the show was over, parked her car in the now non-existent driveway, walked into the crumbling remains of the house, and shot herself.

“Do you think…” Allison chews thoughtfully on her bottom lip. “The street isn't that far away.”

Scott glances at her. “You think she ran away? Hitched a ride with someone?”

Allison shrugs. “I don't know but she's been acting weird lately. And we've been walking forever, if she was out here wouldn't we have found her by now?”

“I don't think she would've done that,” Lydia muses. “She hates being in cars, remember? What are the chances she'd get in one when she doesn't even know the driver?”

“Then where _is_ she?” Allison gestures around the empty forest.

“Here, how about we do a lap around the garden and if we make it to the road without finding her we’ll go back?” Scott suggests.

Allison glances at Lydia and she shrugs, she can't think of a better idea so they follow Scott around the side of the garden and walk back into the trees. They're almost at the street, Lydia can hear the distant sound of cars, when Allison squints and points ahead of them. “Hey, do you remember what Malia was wearing?”

“Purple Nike tee shirt with purple and black printed leggings,” Lydia reels off, and when Scott and Allison both stare at her she shrugs. “What? I'm good with clothes.”

“Do you see that?” Allison points again. “Through those trees, there, see?”

Lydia goes up on her tiptoes, if she looks past the two trees Allison is pointing at she can see a big slab of rock and, yes, that is definitely a sliver of purple. “Oh, my god,” she gasps, and starts to run. “Malia!”

Scott and Allison follow her, tearing through the trees until they break into a small clearing. There's a big flat rock in the middle and Malia is just - sitting there. Her knees are bent to her chest, her arms are wrapped around her shins, and she's staring straight ahead, like she doesn't see them.

Malia, standing in that hallway with Peter, staring blankly over his shoulder like he wasn't even there.

Lydia and Allison both rush forward but Scott pulls them back, shaking his head. “Let me,” he murmurs. 

Allison glances at Malia and nods, stepping back and reaching down to squeeze Lydia's hand as they watch Scott approach the rock. He crouches at the base of it, right in front of Malia. “Hey Malia,” he says softly. “It's Scott. Are you okay?”

Malia doesn't answer him, she looks like she doesn't even see him. Scott kneels up on the rock and brushes Malia's arm with his hand. She _jumps_ , arms going defensively up to her face. “It's okay!” Scott says quickly. “It's just me, you're okay.”

Malia blinks unfocused eyes at him. “Scott?” 

“Hey,” he says gently. “Are you okay?”

She blinks again, turning her head to note Allison and Lydia standing a few feet behind Scott. “What are you doing here?”

“You've been gone a long time,” Scott explains. “We were worried about you.”

“Oh.” Malia shivers. “I must have lost track of the time.”

Scott unzips his sweatshirt and carefully spreads it over her shoulders. “It's time to go back now, okay?”

Malia nods hesitantly and when Scott holds out his hand to her she takes it and allows him to help her down. Malia looks confused, a little out of it, staring helplessly at Scott. 

Allison curls her arm around Lydia's waist. “What's wrong with her?” she whispers.

“I don't know,” Lydia murmurs, watching Scott coax Malia into walking, her hand still curled around his.

She and Allison fall into step behind Scott and Malia, who's clinging to him like a small child, looking back every so often at the girls like she's checking to make sure they haven't left. It's dusk now, the sun is going to set soon, the sky turning swirling colors, rose and gold and violet. Leaves crunch under their sneakers as they take the path back through the woods and cross the parking lot. They make it to the back entrance when the door suddenly flies open and Derek steps out, looking furious.

“Are you kidding me?” he yells. “Get inside, all of you, right now!” 

He holds the door open and they all rush inside, standing in a knot at the entrance to the stairwell. Derek slams the door shut and pushes through them to go into the back hallway and they all follow him wordlessly, watching as Derek runs a hand through his hair and points at Malia.

“I've been looking for you all over school for hours,” he tells her stiffly. “Go pack a bag, you're staying at the loft with us this weekend.”

Malia's mouth drops open in shock. “You're _grounding_ me?”

“You're damn right I am!” he growls.

“You can't do that!” she protests bitterly. “You're not my dad.”

Derek blinks, looking momentarily shocked, before his mouth turns down in a frown. “You're right, I'm not, but I am your guardian. Now go, get your stuff, and if you see Isaac tell him to hurry up.”

“Whatever.” Malia gives him a spectacular glare but she trudges away towards the elevators.

“As for you two” - Derek points to Allison and Lydia. “You're supposed to be at dinner. And you” - he points at Scott, looking suddenly confused. “Wait, who are you?”

“Scott McCall, I'm Deaton’s intern.” Scott holds his hand out for Derek to shake.

“Oh right, Melissa’s kid. Well, seeing as you're not my student I can't technically tell you to do anything, but you two” - he points at the girls. “I appreciate that you wanted to help Malia but next time you find a teacher first, got it?”

They both nod obediently and Derek sighs heavily. “Go to dinner, I'll see you on Monday.” He turns and heads down the hallway towards the elevator after Malia. 

“Huh,” Allison says. “That could've definitely gone worse.” She smiles and kisses Scott goodbye. “Lydia?”

“I'll be there in one second, get a salad started for me?”

“Okay,” Allison shrugs, kisses Scott one more time and walks away.

Scott jams his hands in his back pockets and raises an eyebrow at Lydia. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about earlier?”

Lydia pulls the sleeves of her sweater over her hands nervously. “You're going to see Stiles at school tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Can you tell him something for me?”

Scott cocks his head. “What?”

“Just - tell him I'm sorry.”

“What, why?”

“Scott, please, just tell him. He’ll understand.”

Scott huffs out a breath, looking upset. “Did something happen?”

“No, look, could you please just do this for me?”

“Lydia, I know we've known each other forever and we're friends and everything, but Stiles? Stiles is my best friend, Lydia, he's my _brother_. If you hurt him, you and I, we’re going to have a problem. Okay?”

“Okay,” she says, and bursts into tears.

“Oh no, hey, Lydia.” Scott reaches out to her and she stumbles back, covering her face in her hands.

“I'm sorry,” she cries. “Please, I'm so sorry.”

“Hey, hey, it's okay.” Scott very gently gets an arm around her and leads her down the hallway to an alcove. “Here, sit, it's alright.”

She sits down on a bench next to him and curls over, choking on sobs. “I'm - Scott, I fucked up,” she gasps. “I really fucked up.”

“Okay,” he says calmly, running his hand over her shoulder. “It's going to be okay. Everyone fucks up sometimes, Lydia.”

“No, you don't - he's so fucking _nice_ Scott, and I, I just _ruin_ everything!”

“Whoa, no you don't, hang on. Just tell me what happened.”

Lydia squeezes her eyes shut, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I don't - I don't know, everything's a mess, I just - I don't know to fix it, I have to fix it, I have to, I have to” -

She twitches when she feels hands on her face but when she opens her eyes she's staring into warm brown eyes, not blue. “Hey,” Scott says softly. “Can you take a breath for me?”

She nods shakily, her cheeks warm against his palms, and takes a few shuddery breaths, tears clinging to her eyelashes, making Scott shimmer like a rainbow.

“That's good,” he soothes. “Look, I don't know what happened, but Stiles is a really good guy, he's the best, okay? Whatever's going on with you, you can tell him, he’ll understand.”

“I don't know,” she hedges, her voice cracking.

“Lydia.” Scott catches a tear with his thumb and flicks it away. “Did - did something happen?”

She blinks rapidly but more tears fall anyway. “I don't know.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I don't know,” she mumbles. “It's complicated.”

“Look, just talk to Stiles, okay? You guys can work it out.”

Lydia pushes her cheek into his palm. “Okay, I'll - I'll try.”

He gives her tender smile and bends down to kiss her forehead. “You know you can always talk to me too, right?”

“Oh,” she whispers. “Okay.”

Scott sighs. “Close your eyes for a second.” She complies and feels him wipe away the rest of her tears with his hands. “There, that's better. Come on, Allison's waiting for you.”

Lydia takes Scott's hand when he holds it out to her, his skin damp from her tears, and gets up to walk with him, because even though part of her is still downstairs trapped in the dark there's another part of her, here, that wants the light, craves it - Allison's love, Scott’s kindness, Stiles’ warm eyes and tender hands and sweet mouth.

Something worth fighting for.


	13. method acting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider this my apology for putting you all through two straight chapters of emotional hell.

On Friday morning [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533344319042) gets up early like she usually does and goes down to the gym. It's almost empty, Ethan's lifting weights in a corner and Tracy Stewart and Hayden Romero are stretching together on one of the mats. Lydia puts her headphones in and gets on the treadmill, breathing slowly and steadily as she starts warming up, perfectly in control of every movement.

She can't afford another day like yesterday, she can't fall apart like that. Derek said so himself, she dances likes that again and everything she's worked so hard for will vanish at the snap of his fingers. Lydia has the distinct impression Derek doesn't give out second chances.

So she had a bad rehearsal, so Peter scared the shit out of her. He pushed her too hard, like Derek said. It happens. It's just something that happens.

_Some dancers can't take it. Being pushed like that._

She can't let what happened in one rehearsal ruin everything, not when she's this close to the showcase. She refuses to be one of those girls, the girls who can't take it. 

She's Lydia Martin, she's stronger than that.

She has to be.

She walks for an hour and goes up to the cafeteria for breakfast. [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533344464383) is waiting for her by the doors, she gives her a sleepy smile followed by a hug. “Feeling better, huh?”

“Yeah.” Lydia manages to flash her a grin and follows her into the cafeteria because she's focused again, she got a good night’s sleep and has her head screwed on right today.

She's not going to fuck up again, Lydia vows. Not anymore.

She gets a skim milk cappuccino and a plain Greek yogurt, follows Allison through the line to have their ID’s swiped and walks over to an open table. Allison has her usual bowl of cereal but she's using her spoon to mash the sliced bananas into the side of her bowl instead of eating. 

“What's up with you?” Lydia asks before taking a sip of her cappuccino.

Allison's mouth twists. “My parents are coming into town for the night.”

“And they just got around to telling you?”

“They finished a job in Oakland a day early. They want to take me out to dinner.”

“That's not so bad,” Lydia says tentatively. 

“Yeah, I guess not.” Allison sighs, looking pensive. “Oh, also, get this. Isaac called me last night. From Derek’s.”

Lydia's eyebrows shoot up in interest as she swallows a bite of yogurt. “And?”

“He said Derek and Malia got in a _blowout_ as soon as they got back to Derek's loft yesterday.”

“I told her she was going to get into trouble.”

“No, that's the thing, he said it wasn't about her skipping class or being out of bounds,” Allison whispers, like she's worried about being overheard. 

“So what was it about?”

Allison swirls her spoon around. “Isaac said it sounded like they were fighting about her family. Or lack thereof. He was listening from the other room, he said Malia kept yelling _nobody wants me_ , like, over and over again, and Derek was just like, _taking it_ , and then she asked why he even bothered being her guardian when no one in the family cares about her, and Derek _lost it_. Isaac said he yelled at her for like twenty straight minutes and then Malia ended up locking herself in her room all night.”

“Did you know Derek was her guardian, too?”

Allison shakes her head. “It makes sense though, I guess. She was adopted, so her birth parents must have signed their rights away. And the Hales didn't find out about her until we were thirteen so Derek must have been, what, early twenties?”

“What about Cora?”

“I think she was eighteen when Laura died, so…” Allison takes a sip of orange juice. 

“Does Isaac tell you everything he hears about them?”

“He trusts me,” Allison says simply.

“So what, Derek's just going around collecting orphaned minors? How'd he find out about Malia, anyway?”

“No idea. And he's only Malia and Isaac’s guardian. I told you, Isaac doesn't like talking about it.”

“Why is he Isaac’s guardian though?” Lydia asks. “What about Camden?”

Allison frowns, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. “Look, Isaac really doesn't like talking about this, so don't tell him I said anything, okay?”

“Okay,” Lydia agrees readily.

“Mr. Lahey… he isn't very nice, okay? Like, _really_ not nice, if you get what I mean?”

“Okay,” Lydia says slowly.

“After Camden graduated he left to dance for the English National Ballet, remember?”

“So?”

“So I guess he asked Derek to check up on Isaac for him, and one day Derek showed up at their house and Mr. Lahey… Mr. Lahey….” Allison blinks rapidly, her eyes suddenly glassy. “Look, it's Isaac's story to tell, but um… it was bad, with his dad. Derek pretty much took Isaac and threw him in the Camaro and they went straight to the Sheriff's station.”

“Jesus,” Lydia mutters, feeling a fresh wave of guilt at how she treated Isaac yesterday.

“He could've gone into foster care, like Malia,” Allison says with a shudder. “But Derek promised Camden he'd look out for Isaac, and Camden was in the U.K., and Derek was with the company by then, so I guess… I don't know if Derek felt obligated or what the details were exactly, but um, he got guardianship of Isaac and enrolled him here, that's why he boards.”

“Wow,” Lydia murmurs, because what else is there to say?

“Yeah.” Allison looks sad. “It sounded like kind of a huge mess but Isaac's safe here, that's what matters.”

They finish breakfast and go up to Studio B for technique. Marin is teaching again, she doesn't even glance at her and Allison when they walk in the door. Maybe Derek didn't say anything to her about what happened in class yesterday. Lydia sits down on the floor to take her sweats off and pulls on her ballet slippers. She takes her phone out of her bag to turn it on silent and stops, remembering what Scott said to her yesterday: _Talk to Stiles, okay? You guys can work it out_.

She stares down at her phone, wondering if it could really be that easy. She can't call him, he's in school, and she may be thinking clearly today but she's not crazy enough to leave him a voicemail, not after the way she yelled at him. Lydia opens up their text thread and pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth as she types, erasing and retyping a text three times, until she finally gives up and settles for honest and concise: _I'm sorry_.

“Alright ladies, to the barre,” Marin calls out, and Lydia puts her phone back in her bag and scurries over to the barre.

She pushes everything out of her head - Stiles, Malia, Peter, all of it. She keeps her eyes wide open, a little heavy handed on the barre, reminding herself of where she is - in the studio, with Marin and the girls she's known for most of her life, she's not trapped in a dark basement anymore.

She can't stay in that place, let herself get lost in that headspace, not if she wants to dance well.

She stays focused on her alignment, all her attention on her body, how every muscle feels as she moves, resolutely in the moment. She just has to stay focused. 

She dances a good class. She stays centered, she doesn't let herself get distracted with thoughts of Peter Hale or the basement and she doesn't look at Malia either, doesn't let herself wonder about what Peter did to her. 

It was just one rehearsal, anyway. Maybe she should try to let it go, lock the memory up tight and file it away. There are things dancers have to learn how to put up with, after all.

Things you learn how to take, even if it makes you cold and sick inside.

Dance is about sacrifice. Sometimes you have to sacrifice things.

That's just the way it is.

Lydia dances a clean adagio today, executes perfect pirouettes, jumps as high as she can when they perform a grand allegro. She dances like she's supposed to, the way she knows she's capable of: strong technique, full of energy, like yesterday never happened.

It _can't_ happen, not again.

She's out of chances.

When class ends Lydia goes out into the hallway with the other girls. She sits down on the floor and takes off her slippers, pulling on her leggings over her tights to stay warm. She checks her phone and can't help the way her heart rate picks up when she looks at the screen: _1 missed call, Stiles. 1 new voicemail._

Lydia jumps up, palming her phone, and walks down to the hallway so she can listen to the voicemail in relative privacy, and hits play:

_Hey, Lydia it's Stiles, I got your text. I, um, this is probably stupid, you're in class right now, but I just wanted to make sure that you're okay, I've been worried about you and I know I'm not your boyfriend and we're not dating but you are my friend, and from one friend to another you seemed pretty upset yesterday and I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Oh shit, I have AP calc in like ten seconds, call me back, I mean, if you want to, okay, bye!”_

Lydia hit play and listens to it again, just because it's there and she can, and before she can stop herself she taps the phone icon to call him back. The phone rings a few times but before she can change her mind and hang up the line clicks and then Stiles says, “Hello?”

“Hi,” she says softly. “It's Lydia.”

“I know,” he says, his voice equally soft although she can hear noise in the background. “Hey, how are you?”

“I'm okay.”

“Yeah?”

“I got your message.”

“Oh. Um, okay. Cool. So… everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything's fine. I had a bad rehearsal the other night and when I ran into you I was upset about it, that's all, I didn't mean to take it out on you.”

“What happened?”

“What?”

“In your rehearsal. Are you okay?”

“Oh… yeah, no. I'm okay.”

“You sure?”

She swallows down a wave of panicked irritation. “I'm fine.”

“Okay. Um, you still up for that movie tomorrow? Did Allison talk to you about that?”

“Sure. Yeah, that's fine.”

Because she can do it. She can dance and still have Stiles, she can fix what she did yesterday, it's not too late. It can't be.

“Great! Um, I've got AP English in a minute so I kind of have to go, but um - we're good, right?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs into the phone. “We're good.”

“Okay. I'll see you tomorrow then?”

“Okay.”

“Alright, have a good day.” Over his voice she can hear the distinct ring of a bell.

“You too,” she says, amused. “Go to class, Stiles.”

“Okay, I'll uh, see you tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Hey, wait, Lydia?”

She glances over her shoulder; Allison is watching her curiously from across the hall. “Yeah, Stiles?”

“Are you sure you're okay?”

Trapped in the dark, Peter holding her close enough to rip her apart if he wanted to, and then releasing her without warning. 

Falling through space and curling over on the floor unable to move like a dead body, like she was nothing more than a broken doll. 

_I could do anything to you_.

“Yeah,” she says in a thin voice, blinking back sudden tears. “I'm fine.”

*

When she's done with class for the day Lydia goes up to her dorm room. She strips in the bathroom and showers, washes her hair before getting out. She drips water on the bath mat while she hits her hair with a blow dryer and a round brush until it falls over her shoulders in big waves. She wraps a towel around herself and walks over to her closet to pull out her weekender. She changes into [street clothes](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533344620372) and packs for the weekend, lays her laptop and cosmetics bags on top of a few pairs of leggings and zips her bag shut. Lydia puts on her flats, pockets her phone, grabs her pink bomber jacket and her bags, and takes all of her things down to the lobby.

Lydia slips into the office; her mother shoots her a smile from across the desk, the phone pressed to her ear. Lydia settles down on the couch, pulls her tablet out of her dance bag and plugs her headphones into it. She watches a recording of HBC’s staging of Giselle with Derek and Braeden while her mother finishes up work. He really was amazing, Lydia thinks, watching Derek take the stage.

He must have really hated Deucalion if he retired early just to get control of the company. There's no other reason to give up a career like that, not when you're Derek Hale.

Unless he was worried about Peter coming back. What had he said, yesterday? Peter is here on a trial basis only. What did Peter do, what does Derek know about him that Peter’s position as guest choreographer is conditional?

What would Derek had done, if Lydia hadn't been too afraid to tell him the truth yesterday? If she had told him how Peter promised to make her a star, appealed to her deepest desires, told her he would help her, only to terrorize her in a basement studio with no escape.

Lydia shivers and turns her attention back to the video, watching Braeden’s powerful legs as she jumps.

_Focus_.

They leave HSB at six-thirty, stopping at the cafe to pick up dinner on the way back to the house. Lydia's mother eats salmon like always while Lydia works her way through a mixed greens salad topped with avocado, sliced cucumbers, chickpeas, and a side of quinoa. They eat at the table, Lydia skims through a copy of Vanity Fair while her mother sips a glass of wine in between bites of her fish and reads a romance novel from the library. When they're finished Lydia joins her mother on the couch and sits through a few episodes of The Real Housewives before escaping up to her room to stretch.

Lydia spread her yoga mat out on the floor and changes into a sports bra and [leggings](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533344728618). She goes through her socks and takes out the pair Stiles got her for her birthday. She slides them on slowly, tracing a finger around the geometric pattern. She thinks about his voice on the phone that morning, how he hadn't sounded mad at her at all, just worried. 

Like he understood, somehow.

Lydia starts her Tchaikovsky playlist and walks around her room a few times, swinging her arms around before coming down on her hands and knees on her mat. She does cat/cows before pushing her hips back into downward dog to stretch her hamstrings. She does a few planks before getting down on her back to do leg lifts and crunches. When she's done with core work she pulls her legs in towards her chest to stretch. Her phone rings when she's halfway finished, interrupting the music from where Lydia left it on her bed.

She rolls over onto her knees to reach up to grab her phone, a small desperate part of her hoping to see Stiles’ face on the screen but it's Allison, a picture Lydia took of her ages ago, giggling, eyes shut, the dimple in her cheek popping. Allison, who's supposed to be at dinner with her parents.

Lydia swipes the screen and holds the phone to her ear. “Hey, everything okay?”

“Can I sleep over?” Allison's voice sounds tight. “I'm done with dinner.”

Lydia gets up and starts rolling up her mat. “Sure. Are you coming over now?”

“If that's okay, Dad can drop me off.”

“Sure, yeah, come on over.”

“Okay, thanks.” Allison hangs up before Lydia can say anything else.

Lydia stares down at her phone for a minute before closing out her music app and peeling off her socks. Her mom must have gone to bed for the night because her door is closed, Lydia texts her that Allison's coming over and goes downstairs to wait. She turns the porch light on for Allison, leaning up against the window to look for headlights. 

[Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533344840443) gets dropped off by Mr. Argent fifteen minutes later. Lydia unlocks the front door and lets her into the foyer, jaw dropping as she takes in Allison's outfit. “Where did you go to dinner?”

“La Maison,” Allison mutters. “Dad knows the chef.”

Lydia whistles softly. “Swanky. And where did you get those boots, young lady?”

“My mom brought them for me. Late birthday present.” Allison rubs her eyes with the heel of one hand, smearing her eyeliner. “Can we go upstairs? I need to get out of this dress.”

She follows Lydia up to her room and drops her stuff on the floor. They both change into oversized tee shirts and go into the bathroom to brush their teeth and take off their makeup. Allison perches on the counter, legs crossed, staring into the mirror as she rubs off all her eyeliner with a wipe and tosses it into the wastebasket. 

Lydia stands in front of her to brush out her hair before piling it into a messy bun on the top of her head.

“So,” she finally says, because she can't take Allison's silence anymore. “You going to tell me what happened?”

Allison sighs and tips her head back against the mirror. “My mom wanted me to stay the night at their hotel with them.”

“Which didn't happen because...?”

Allison blinks and lightly bumps the back of her head against the glass. “She wants me to break up with Scott.”

Lydia stares at her, surprised; she thought the Argents had gotten over the Scott and Allison thing by now. “Seriously?”

Allison sniffs delicately. “She thinks he's too much of a distraction. She says I need to be more focused on my dancing with the show coming up. She's worried, you know, after Kate, even though it was like a decade ago, that Derek's going to be biased against me so she thinks I have to work twice as hard to make up for it.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “You aren't Kate. Come on, Derek knows that, we all know that.”

“It's just an excuse,” Allison says bitterly. “To get me to break up with Scott.”

“But - you love Scott.”

“Yeah,” Allison says, and starts to cry. “I really love him.”

“Then screw her,” Lydia says fiercely. “Okay? She doesn't know what she's talking about.”

Allison wipes her eyes. “Thanks, Lydia.”

“Come on.” Lydia holds her hand out and Allison takes it to hop down from the sink.

Allison follows her back to her bedroom. Lydia waits for Allison to cross the room to her bed before turning off the light and walking around to the other side of the bed, crawling under the covers next to Allison, who turns over on her side and presses her cheek against the pillow. “Thanks for letting me sleep over.”

Lydia pokes Allison in the shin with her toes. “Don't be stupid. You know you can always stay here.”

“I just - I couldn't spend the night with her, after she said that. And god, my dad was just sitting there, he didn't defend me or anything.”

“I'm sorry,” Lydia whispers. 

“They just don't get it, I guess,” Allison says, her voice cracking.

“They don't really know Scott like we do,” Lydia offers.

“I don't think they really want to. They just see him as like, this _thing_ that's getting in the way of everything they want for me.”

“What about what you want?”

“I don't really think what I want matters to them.”

Lydia doesn't know what to say to that. Her mother redesigned their entire life because Lydia wanted to dance here. She arranged for her audition and made sure Lydia was prepared, she moved them to Beacon Hills when Lydia got into HSB, she left her father, she works her ass off so Lydia can have pointe shoes and organic coconut milk in the fridge and a closet full of athletic clothes.

“It matters,” Lydia eventually says. “It has to matter.”

Allison shakes her head. “It's different for you. All this - it was always yours. Your dream. I - it's just part of my family, you know? My mom put me in ballet when I was three, and I was good, but no one ever asked me if I _wanted_ it.”

“But you love it,” Lydia whispers. Of course Allison loves it, she wouldn't have made it this far if she didn't.

“Yeah,” Allison confirms. “But - I also love Scott. And sleeping. And eating whatever I want and not worrying about someone saying, you're a ballet dancer, are you sure you want to eat that? I don't know… I feel like I should be grateful, because I know how lucky I am to have a spot at school, especially after what happened with Kate. And so many girls - so many girls never get a chance to get this far. I know that I'm lucky.”

“But?”

Allison lets out a harsh sounding breath, like she's trying to hold back a sob. “But sometimes I'm afraid that one day I'm going to wake up and be exactly the person my parents pushed me to be and - and I won't have any idea who I really am inside because I wasted all this time trying to be the person they wanted me to be instead of being myself.”

“Hey,” Lydia says firmly. “That won't happen.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“How come?”

“Because I know exactly who you are, Allison Argent.”

Allison smiles. “And who am I, Lydia Martin?”

“You're my best friend. You're - you're not just some little bunhead robot, okay? You'll never be that, don't worry about that. And when you're with Scott you're happy, like, ridiculously happy. That's its own kind of lucky.”

Allison has that dreamy expression she always gets when someone brings up Scott. “Good pep talk.”

“You're welcome.”

“Hey,” Allison murmurs. “I'm really glad you're feeling better, I was worried.”

Lydia scoots a little closer to her. “You don't have to worry about me.”

“I know,” Allison whispers. “But I do. You're my best friend.”

Lydia swallows back a wave of guilt - best friends aren't supposed to keep secrets from each other.

But Lydia can't bring herself to do it, tell Allison what happened. If she tells Allison then it's real, she can't pretend it was just a bad rehearsal, a mistake, a bad dream. If she tells Allison it'll never go away.

“Hey,” Allison murmurs. “You want to go to a movie with me and Scott and Stiles tomorrow night?”

“Sure,” Lydia says, smiling. “Stiles already asked me.”

“Yeah?” 

“Mhmm.”

“How's the just friends thing going?”

“It's going,” she says lightly.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I'm going out with you guys tomorrow night.”

“This is weird,” Allison comments. “You used to be the one with the serious boyfriend and I was the one doing the will we or won't we thing.”

Lydia snorts. “That's not exactly how I remember it.”

“Scott and I were friends before we started dating.”

“If by friends you mean sharing awkward lust-filled stares from across the room than sure, totally the same situation.”

Allison giggles. “Okay, I guess it's not exactly the same.”

“Allison?”

“Yeah?”

Lydia chews on the inside of her cheek, trying to figure out how to articulate what she's trying to say. “How did you know? About Scott?”

“How did I know I loved him?”

“How did you know he could be - when did you see him as more than a friend?”

“Oh,” Allison says softly. “Um, don't laugh, okay? I was late to English class this one time and I was running and I ran into Scott, like literally, and I was kind of freaking out because I didn't have a pen and I didn't have time to go back up to our room to get one. Anyway, I was stressing out about it, and Scott just reached into his backpack and gave me a pen. I know it probably sounds dumb but it was so sweet, and I don't know, there was this moment when we really looked at each other and I felt like… I felt like he really _saw_ me. Like I was…”

“Special?”

“Yeah. Special.”

“Yeah,” Lydia sighs, because she understands that kind of look now, and snuggles her cheek against her pillow

*

In the morning Scott picks Allison up and she hugs Lydia goodbye on the front porch with the promise to see each other that night for the movie. Lydia's mother is already gone when Allison leaves, at the office in San Francisco for the day. Lydia watches Scott drive away with Allison before going back inside and locking the front door behind her. She has coffee and a yogurt for breakfast while watching MSNBC and when she's finished she goes upstairs to practice. She turns on all the lights on the second floor, loudly plays her music while she works at the barre so that she can't forget for one second where she is - home, safe, under the lights where it's warm. She has a good practice session, works in the center for an hour once she's warm and does a long stretching cool down before taking a shower.

She still has the whole afternoon to kill so she goes back downstairs in her bathrobe, eats a protein bar and an apple at the kitchen table while catching up on the reading for her online mythology course. As the afternoon passes she gets more anxious, remembering how upset Stiles had looked when she flipped out at him the other day, how easy it was for her to break him down with just a few cruel sentences. 

He texts her around six, when she's eating baby carrots and cucumber slices dipped in hummus, to inform her that he's picking her up in forty-five minutes. Lydia snaps on the lid of the hummus container and puts it back in the fridge before going upstairs. She changes into a pair of dark rinse jeans and a [tee shirt](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533344995660) and sits down at her vanity to do her makeup and curl her hair.

When she's done getting ready Lydia runs downstairs and collects her bag and her jacket, sits down on the bottom step to put on her Chloe flats. Her mom pulls up just as Lydia is turning on the porch light; she opens the front door and waves as her mother comes up the walk, car keys clutched in one hand and her tote bag slung over her elbow.

“Are you going out?” she asks, kissing Lydia's cheek and dropping the keys in the dish on top of the entry table.

“I'm going to a movie with Allison and Scott,” Lydia explains. 

“Is he picking you up or do you need the car?”

“No,” Lydia says, and bites the bullet. “One of Scott's friends is getting me.”

Her mother raises an eyebrow. “Which friend?”

“One of his friends from school. Stiles Stilinski?”

“The Sheriff’s son?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.” Her mother unbuttons her trench coat and hangs it up in the hall closet. “Is he cute?”

“Mom!”

“What? I was just asking.”

“It's not like that, I don't even know him that well.”

“Okay, relax honey, I'm just teasing.” Her mom slips off her loafers and squeezes Lydia's shoulder. “I'm going to have a glass of wine and make something to eat, did you get dinner?”

“Mhmm.” Lydia glances out the window, looking for headlights.

“Okay, don't stay out too take.”

“I won't, it's just a movie.”

“If you say so.” Her mother winks and heads off to the kitchen.

A few minutes later the Jeep pulls up to the driveway. “Bye!” she calls out, and goes outside, walking self-consciously down the sidewalk, aware that she's lit up by headlights.

She crosses in front of the Jeep, catching sight of Stiles out of the corner of her eye. The passenger door swings open for her and Lydia hops up into the car, shutting the door behind her. He's in the driver's seat wearing his red hoodie, those long fingers curled around the steering wheel. Lydia's frozen, captivated by his hands, his face, the way he subtly turns his body towards her.

“Hey!” [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533345133590) says cheerfully from the backseat, disentangling herself from Scott to lean over the console. “How was your day?”

Lydia shrugs, hyper-aware of Stiles’ eyes on her. “Fine. Just practiced. What movie are we seeing?”

Stiles backs out of the driveway and turns down her street as Scott and Allison give a disjointed synopsis of the movie they got tickets for, some action flick with a lead actor Lydia's never heard of. The movie theater is in downtown Beacon Hills, when they get there Stiles manages to get a parking spot on the street and they all walk down the sidewalk to go into the lobby of the theater. Stiles apparently already got tickets online for them because he pulls a sheet of paper out of the back pocket of his jeans and hands it to the guy manning the doors that lead to the concession stand and the theaters, who scans it and waves them through.

“We can go save seats if you guys want to handle snacks?” Allison suggests.

“Sure, I think Lydia and I can manage that,” Stiles says, and Allison grins and walks off with Scott before Lydia can stop them, leaving her alone with Stiles.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a second?” he asks.

Lydia nods, her heart beating way too fast in her chest. He takes her hand and Lydia feels an electric jolt run up her spine at the feeling of his warm palm pressed against hers. Stiles tugs lightly on her arm to walk her over to a little alcove set back by the water fountains, boxing her in against the wall. Lydia leans back against it, pretending she's not nervous, that she doesn't care about whatever he's going to say.

Stiles licks his lips and just like that she's instantly distracted, remembering how it felt to have his mouth on hers, her body melting into his touch, limbs tangled up together. “So, look,” he finally says. “I just wanted to say that I'm really, _really_ sorry about what happened the other day.”

Lydia blinks, surprised. “Why?”

“Because you're right, I'm not your boyfriend, and I know we're not dating, you've made that like, painfully clear. And I had no right to touch you like that, I should've asked first -

“Stiles.”

“Yeah?”

Lydia reaches out to him, palms up, breathing a sigh of relief when he links his fingers through hers. “You didn't do anything wrong, you were just being nice and I…” Lydia swallows back something thick in her throat. “I'm the one who should be apologizing, not you.”

He offers her a gentle smile. “You already did that.”

“Right,” she murmurs, distracted by the feel of his thumb tracing patterns over the back of her hand.

“So,” he says softly. “You're still not interested in dating then, I take it?”

She tilts her head, shaking a curl away from her face. “I wouldn't say it's a matter of interest, exactly.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

He's so close to her, it would be so easy to pull on his hands and press her body up against him. “It's just - things are kind of intense right now, with rehearsals and the showcase coming up.”

“Right,” he nods. “You mentioned that.”

“Maybe after the showcase,” she hedges. 

“Which would be…?”

“It's in the beginning of June.”

“That's only two months,” he points out.

“I wouldn't - it's not like I'm asking you to wait for me,” she says softly.

“Do you want me to?”

She's so stunned by his question that she has to look down so he can't read it on her face. “Do _you_ want to?”

“Lydia.” When she can't look at him Stiles withdraws his left hand from hers so he can tip her chin up with his index finger. “I'd wait a lot longer than two months if I had to.”

It's like falling again, but this time there's a wall against her back and one of Stiles’ hands clasped tightly around hers, the other soft against her face. “You would?”

He nods slowly, his hand sliding up to cup her cheek. “I can't stop thinking about kissing you again,” he confesses.

“You could,” she whispers, because he forgave her, like it was nothing, he wants to _wait_ for her, like she's some soldier going off to battle.

Stiles grins, his thumb rubbing over her cheekbone. “I dunno, you're not my girlfriend, and we're not dating. I don't usually go around kissing my friends, I mean, except for that time we made out, which was awesome by the way” -

“I'm fine being an exception,” she says quickly, because she wants it, more than she'd like to admit.

He tilts his head down. “Really?”

She exhales, pursing her lips. “We could be special friends,” she suggests quietly.

“Yeah?” He's so close to her she could count his eyelashes. “I think I'd be cool with that.”

“Then kiss me already,” she demands.

His eyes widen, like she's shocked him, but then the hand on her face is angling her head back so he can dip down and press his lips against hers. It's a sweet and gentle thing, this kiss, almost _too_ soft - the lightest brush of his lips against hers, the pads of his fingers resting against her face, a kiss like a promise of more to come.

Stiles pulls away and bows his head to rest his forehead against hers. “Hey,” he murmurs. “You sure you're okay?”

“Yeah,” she whispers.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“What?”

“Your rehearsal.”

Lydia fights off a shudder, closing her eyes so she can focus on him, the warmth of his hand still clasped in hers. “Not really.”

He sighs and pulls back, but he doesn't release her hand. “You know you could though, right? If you wanted to?”

It's not something she's even willing to consider, telling Stiles. She just got him back, she's not going to explain to him how she's been broken twice now, by men she was supposed to be able to trust, dropped to the floor like a bag of dirty laundry. She wouldn't be able to get the words out.

Lydia blinks rapidly and focuses on his hand in hers, the softness in his eyes. “Yeah,” she says, managing to give him an easy smile. “I know.”

He squeezes her hand. “We should probably go, the movie’s going to start soon.”

She nods, surprised that she feels a little disappointed. She wants to stay here, hidden away in a corner with him, where she's safe. Even if she isn't ready to open herself up and give him everything yet, she knows he wouldn't hurt her.

Not the way the others have.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “Just…” Lydia goes up on her tiptoes and presses her mouth against his, and she isn't soft or gentle about it.

Stiles gasps into her mouth and kisses her back, his fingers threading tightly through hers. Lydia squeezes her eyes shut so she can focus on the feeling - the warmth that starts low in her stomach and spreads out through her body, the flick of his tongue against hers, his free hand sliding through her hair.

“We - we should go,” he mumbles against her lips.

Lydia catches his bottom lip between her teeth and bites, just a little. “Do we have to?”

He groans softly and kisses her again, sliding one thigh between her legs. Lydia clutches onto his hip with her right hand, greedy, now that she has him again she doesn't want to let him go. Stiles strokes the back of her head, lips pressing teasing little kisses against hers. “They're gonna come looking for us.”

Lydia sighs against his mouth and kisses him one more time, savoring the moment, before reluctantly pulling away. “Okay.”

Stiles gives her a loopy grin and readjusts his grip on her hand before leading her back across the room to get in line behind the glass concession counter. When it's their turn Stiles orders a large tub of popcorn, Junior Mints, and a package of red licorice. “Lydia, what do you want?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder at her.

“I'm okay,” she murmurs, running her thumb back and forth across the back of his hand.

He raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I'm fine.”

“Okay,” he says a little hesitantly, but pays for the food and withdraws his hand from her grip to carry it all into the theater, Lydia following behind him. Scott and Allison have seats saved up in one of the back rows. Lydia walks up the steps behind Stiles and follows him into the row where Scott and Allison are sitting. Allison's sitting to Scott’s left and Stiles sits on his other side, passes the Junior Mints to Allison and the popcorn to Scott. Lydia sits down next to Stiles just as the lights go down and the previews start. She plays with the zipper of her jacket, trying to tune out the buttery smell of the popcorn. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Stiles pop the end of a Twizzler into his mouth. Her stomach tightens, thinking of how she felt only minutes ago. Like she was a soft, pliable thing, warm and safe with his hands holding her against his body.

She shifts in her seat as the movie starts. Stiles finishes his Twizzler and sucks on one of his fingers for a second and Lydia's done, how is she supposed to focus on the movie when she's sitting right next to _this?_

Stiles catches her looking and she tears her gaze away from him to look back at the screen, crossing and recrossing her legs. She can feel him move a little next to her, his right thigh pressing against her left. Lydia drops her hands to her lap, fingers tapping against her jeans. The back of his hand brushes against her, just for a second. Lydia swallows and trips her fingers across her thigh and over to his. He catches her fingers and flips their hands so they're palm to palm. His fingers stroke against hers and Lydia sighs quietly, secretly relishing his touch, how grounded it makes her feel.

She's sitting in the dark but she isn't afraid, not with Stiles right next to her, his skin warm and real against hers.

He slides his hand across hers and disentangles their fingers to spread his hand over her thigh, both of them looking straight ahead at the screen, although for the life of her Lydia can't focus on the movie, not with the heat of his palm sinking into her leg through her jeans. She squirms a little, her muscles contracting under his touch when his fingers start to stroke. She inhales hard and leans into him, flutters of heat spreading down her body. She pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth, her body clenching and relaxing as he trails his fingers up to the crease of her hip and back down to her knee.

Stiles tilts his head towards hers and Lydia's helpless, she blinks up at him in the dark, his face in shadow. _Okay?_ he mouths. She nods faintly, curling in towards him to lay her head on his shoulder because she's melting into his touch, like her body needs something she isn't even aware of, something only he can give her. She twists her hand in the fabric of his shirt and turns her face to the side to press her lips against his throat.

He jerks in his seat, turning his head to give her a cautious look and Lydia suddenly remembers where they are - in a public place, their best friends right next to them. “Just watch the movie,” Stiles murmurs, voice deliciously low and teasing, and cups his hand over her knee.

*

Tuesday morning all the level sevens and eights get an email that they have a master class scheduled in Studio D that night at seven-thirty. Lydia's next showcase rehearsal isn't until the next night so it's not a problem. She's relieved even, for the distraction. And master classes are fun, they're usually taught in an outside style, like jazz or contemporary, just to push them out of their comfort zone, broaden their skill set a little.

[Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533345298576) eats dinner with the other girls that night and hangs out with them in the hallway with the other dancers, waiting with anticipation for whoever is teaching the class to show up. It starts as a soft murmur down the hallway, and then the dancers all part to reveal Braeden, wearing a black zip up hoodie and pair of black sweatpants, her dark hair slicked back in a bun. Braeden grins at them and unlocks the studio door, swings it open and gestures to all of them. “C’mon kiddos, let’s go, come on in!”

They all run into the studio and dump their bags and shoes against the wall before walking over to the center where Braeden is waiting for them. “Good evening,” she says pleasantly. “Welcome to our little master class of the night, you all have Derek to thank for this. He seems to be under the impression that you all need to loosen up a little.”

They all exchange little glances of worry. They're ballet dancers, they're supposed to be uptight, everyone is, it comes with the territory.

“We’ll be doing a modern class tonight,” Braeden continues. “So first I want everyone to take a deep breath and relax.”

Everyone lets out a nervous sort of laugh and Braeden grins. “This might push you out of your comfort zone a little, and that's okay. This isn't technique, we're going to have some fun tonight and play, sound good?”

Everyone nods, looking as baffled as Lydia feels. Braeden walks over to the speakers and plugs her phone in. Music starts to play, a slow and steady drumbeat that Lydia can feel in her feet, vibrating through the floor. “Okay,” Braeden calls out. “Take a walk around the room, everyone.”

When they all stare at her Braeden laughs. “C’mon, take a walk. Move your body! Check in with yourself! How do you feel tonight? Are you tired? Are you sore? Are you stressed out? Move around, let your body talk to you! Explore your space!”

They all begin to move, tentatively at first, walking in big circles around the room. They all catch each other's eye as they move, shooting apprehensive glances at each other.

“Why do you all look afraid?” Braeden yells. “Own your space! Smile! Have some fun, people!”

A few level seven girls giggle, swinging their arms around, and Braeden claps. “That's what I'm talking about!”

They all weave around each other, loosening up, bumping hips or offering high fives as they pass each other. Allison twirls past Lydia, shooting her a wink and darting around Isaac.

“Okay, now grab the person next to you and give them a hug!” Braeden shouts. “Go on, don't be scared! Live a little!”

Everyone starts grabbing each other; Lydia looks to her side and stops, Isaac is right next to her, her obvious partner for this specific exercise. He shoots her an uneasy look and Lydia sighs. He doesn't move but he doesn't step away either so Lydia opens her arms to him, eyebrows raised like she's daring him to accept her hug. He shuffles over to her quickly and Lydia cautiously wraps her arms around his waist. He twitches but after a moment he relaxes and hugs her back. It's - nice, actually. They're friends, sure, mostly because he spends so much time with Allison, but it feels good, like an unspoken apology, like forgiveness.

“Now tell each other a secret,” Braeden instructs. “Have a moment of human connection! Share something with each other! Art is about truth, people! What's your truth?”

Isaac rolls his eyes. “Is this class or therapy?”

Lydia snorts. “The hell if I know.”

Isaac gives her a wistful smile. “Alright then. What's your deep dark secret?”

_I could do anything to you._

Lydia shivers against him. “I'm afraid of falling again,” she whispers.

To her surprise Isaac tightens his arms around her. “I'm claustrophobic. Like, crazy claustrophobic.”

“Doesn't that feel good?” Braeden shouts. “Connect with each other!”

Lydia glances up at Isaac and offers him a tentative smile, and relaxes against him in relief when Isaac smiles back.

*

“Don't let her go!” Peter shouts at Aiden from across the studio, where he's watching them rehearse.

They're in a practice studio in the basement, not the one he dropped her in but the atmosphere is the same. [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533345471335) flinches at the sound of his voice, trying not to lose her spot as she does another pirouette, Aiden's hands pressed against her sides.

They're going over the section where Aiden catches her. Peter is walking them through the choreography, a series of bizarre assisted turns. He has Lydia fall off her pointe, intentionally, waving her arms like she's trying to escape, but Aiden yanks her back to send her spinning into more assisted pirouettes. She comes out of the final turn and Aiden pulls her back against his body the way Peter showed him. Lydia's chest tightens and she pushes down a cold flash of fear, trying to remind herself that it's just Aiden, he's not really going to hurt her, they're just pretending.

It's acting, that's all it is. She can do this. She has to do this.

“ _Yes_ ,” Peter says emphatically, pointing right at her. “Do you feel it, Lydia? Do you feel that?”

Cold sweat drips down her back under her leotard, her stomach tightening into a hard little knot. She nods, silent, leaning back against Aiden.

“Good girl,” Peter praises, his blue eyes icy and distant. “Now you're getting it. Let's run it again, from the top.”

Aiden releases her and Lydia walks back over to her starting place, standing over a red taped X on the floor, swallowing back nausea. She takes her opening pose, waiting until the music starts over, and begins to dance.


	14. daughters of men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm gonna get mushy for a hot second so bear with me. When I started posting this it was supposed to only be ten chapters and I had no idea what kind of response it would get. Now we've passed the 100k mark (WHAT) and I continue to be blown away by the passion you guys have shown for this fic. Every kudos and comment means the world to me and I'm overwhelmed with gratitude and love for every single one of you <3

The month of April passes in a haze of classes and rehearsals. Lydia gets up every morning to warm up, eats a good breakfast, takes class all day, and practices on the nights she doesn't have rehearsals. Peter comes to HSB twice a week to rehearse with her and Aiden. He's alternately cold and warm, showering them with praise some days and pushing them to the brink of total frustration on others. Lydia hasn't had an individual rehearsal with Peter since she had that meeting with Derek - she doesn't know if he has anything to do with it but she wonders sometimes, if he said something, because Peter hasn't shown any interest in working with her individually again.

Lydia's privately relieved. She can handle it, as long as nothing else happens.

Nothing's going to happen, of course. She has it under control. Everything’s under control.

She starts dreaming about rehearsals. She wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes in a cold sweat, the phantom scrape of teeth at the back of her neck, invisible arms wrapped around her so tightly that she can hardly breathe. She can never fall back asleep when that happens, she goes into the bathroom so she doesn't wake Allison up and does crunches on the hard tiled door until she feels tired enough to go back to bed.

She sees Stiles on Saturdays or occasionally during the week, mostly with Scott and Allison. They go out to dinner and Lydia picks at salads with one of Stiles’ hands on her thigh under the table, heavy and warm. They go to the movies and Lydia sits next to him with one of Stiles’ arms around her shoulders, her head on his chest. Sometimes she falls asleep right there in the theater and wakes up to his lips against her ear, murmuring _Lydia, time to wake up. Lydia, Lydia_. He always drops her off last when he drives everyone home and they make out in the passenger seat of the Jeep in her mother's driveway until Lydia absolutely has to go inside.

Lydia can feel the days slipping through her fingers like she fell through Jackson's hands, too fast, and she can't stop it. The showcase is looming ahead, her entire future shimmering right in front of her. The stage, the lights, the audience falling in love with her with every step she takes. Dancing in Laura Hale’s footsteps, pushing herself everyday to achieve that - perfection, transcendence. Become nothing but pure muscle and bone and solid determination.

Become a star.

*

On the first Friday of May [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533346181929) eats an early dinner in the cafeteria so she can go down to the basement to practice before she leaves school for the weekend with her mother. Only one of the studios doesn't have a reserved sign for rehearsals on the door today. Lydia opens the door to the sole available studio but stops in the doorway because [Malia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533346300980) is already in there, walking in aimless circles in front of the mirror, crying, her hands pressed against her mouth so all Lydia can hear are muffled sobs.

“Malia.” Lydia drops her bag to the floor, leaning against the doorway.

Malia jumps, her head whipping around. When she sees Lydia her eyes widen and her hands leave her mouth to wipe her face with shaking fingers. “Leave me alone!”

“Malia.” Lydia takes careful steps toward her, thinking of Scott crouched against a rock, his hands held out to Malia like she was a wounded animal. “Come on, just tell me what happened.”

“Go away!” Malia's eyes squeeze shut and tears stream down her cheeks. “Seriously, just leave me alone.”

“Just let me make sure you're okay first,” Lydia says in a soft voice. “Are you hurt? Did someone - did someone do something to you?”

“Why do you keep asking me that?” Malia narrows her eyes and suddenly closes the distance between them, making Lydia pull back on instinct. “Did someone do something to _you?_ ”

“We aren't talking about me,” Lydia says tightly. 

Malia wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “I can't tell you. It's a secret.”

“What kind of secret?”

Malia shudders. “I'm not supposed to tell anyone.”

“Malia.” Lydia takes a cautious step forward. “If someone hurt you, or, or _touched_ you” -

“It's not like that,” Malia mumbles.

Peter, stroking Malia’s cheek, like she was something infinitely precious. “Did he _do_ something to you?”

“Who?”

“Malia, you know who I'm talking about.”

Malia’s eyes widen. “Wait - _Peter?_ ” She starts laughing hysterically, more tears pouring down her face. “Oh my god, Lydia.”

“Malia” -

“You have no idea what you're talking about.” Malia is either laughing so hard she's crying or crying so hard she's laughing, Lydia can't tell but it's horrible. “That's - oh my god, that's so sick. Fuck.”

“Malia” -

“No one knows, okay? Not even you, little miss know-it-all. You have no _idea_ what I'm dealing with, okay, so for the last time, back off and leave me alone!”

“Fine,” Lydia says flatly. “I'll just go upstairs and tell Derek that his cousin is obviously having a nervous breakdown and someone should really do something about that.”

Malia surges forward, clutching Lydia's light blue tee shirt in her hands. “You can't do that! I told you, it's a secret, you can't tell Derek you saw me, he’ll just get upset, you can't tell, okay?”

“Tell me why not,” Lydia hisses, curling her fingers around Malia's wrists and yanking her hands away. “Give me one good reason and I swear, I'll leave you alone, just tell me what the hell is going on!”

Malia’s bottom lip quivers and then her whole face just _crumples_. “He's my dad! Okay? He's my fucking dad!”

Lydia can actually _feel_ her jaw drop as she stumbles back. “What?”

“He's my dad,” Malia says, her voice cracking, and she starts to sob. “Peter's my dad.”

“Oh my god,” Lydia murmurs, one of her hands coming up to press her palm against her forehead to steady herself. “Malia - when did you find out?”

“They told me and Cora right before the Gala.” The noise of her crying in the small studio sounds amplified, setting Lydia’s nerves on edge.

Malia, walking out of the ballroom before Derek made his speech, sitting outside on the steps with watery eyes.

Lydia's never seen her cry like this before.

“You can't tell,” Malia wails, one of her hands going up to pull on her hair. “I'm not supposed to tell.”

“Okay,” Lydia says faintly, reaching out for her. “Okay. Malia it's okay.”

“Okay?!” Malia blinks shocked eyes at her, she's gone very pale under her tan. “Did you not just hear what I said? Peter Hale is my _dad_. How is that okay? You know what he's like, I know you know what he's like.”

 _I could do anything to you_.

“Yeah,” Lydia whispers, swallowing back a wave of nausea. “I know.”

Malia's eyes are a little wild. “No one’s supposed to know. I'm not allowed - we're not allowed to tell.”

“You said they told you - does Derek know? Malia, does Derek know?”

Malia snorts. “Of course Derek knows, how do you think I got here? He's the one that contacted DCFS and tracked me down. It sure as hell wasn't Peter.”

 _Isaac said Malia kept yelling nobody wants me, over and over again_.

“So why tell you now?” Lydia wonders. “You've been here for five years.”

Malia shrugs awkwardly, her cheeks woefully tear-stained. “I don't know. Maybe - Derek's different, now. After Laura he - he was really, really angry for awhile, and then… I don't know. I think he felt like if he didn't do something he was going to lose his whole family. He started spending more time with Isaac and I think he quit the company so he could be around for us full time.”

“Malia” - Lydia has to press her hand against the mirror, the studio suddenly spinning. “Is that why he’s back? Peter? Because of you?”

“I don't know,” Malia says slowly, her eyes red and glazed over, staring distantly over Lydia's shoulder. “Maybe. But - it's not like he couldn't have told me before, if he actually wanted to… it's not like he wants to be my _dad_ , you know, like a happy little family. It's not - it's not like that. I'm turning eighteen soon, maybe they were afraid I'd find out on my own so they beat me to it. I really don't know.” 

“I don't understand.” Lydia's head is beginning to hurt. “Why are they keeping it a secret? You're - you're a Hale, like _officially_ , you’d think they'd want to fucking announce it.”

Something in Malia's face closes off, her jaw locking. “They said the company can't handle another scandal.”

“So what, they dropped this bomb on you and you're just supposed to pretend everything is fine?”

Malia grimaces. “It's kind of a Hale thing. Suffer in silence and carry on.”

“Jesus, Malia.”

“You can't tell,” Malia pleads. “Seriously, Cora’s the only one who knows.”

“What about Isaac?”

Malia shakes her head emphatically. “It's a _secret_ , no one’s supposed to know. You're not supposed to know. You can't tell anyone, okay? Not Allison, not Isaac, not Scott, no one, okay? I don't - I think Peter would be really mad if people found out about me. It would - make people ask questions no one wants to answer.”

Like how the hell Peter Hale’s daughter ended up in foster care for years when the Hales were right there in the same town.

“How'd they find you?” Lydia asks.

Malia coughs wetly into her fist. “Talia knew about me. I don't know how, but she did. She mentioned me in the will. Derek wanted to know why the hell his mom had left money to some thirteen year old kid he'd never heard of. He started digging, and um, he found me eventually. Petitioned for guardianship.”

“Oh my god,” Lydia whispers. “Malia” -

“Don't.” Malia scrubs her face with her palms. “Look, I'm fine, okay?”

Lydia shivers. _Oh yeah, you look fine._ Is this what it was like for Isaac, when he found her that day after rehearsal, crying on the second floor landing?

“Come on,” Lydia finally sighs. “You should go put something on your face before your eyes get all puffy.”

Malia sniffs. “Okay.”

Lydia holds out her hand. “Come on, let's go.”

Malia blinks a few times and nods, bends down to grab her bag before linking hands with Lydia and allowing her to lead her out of the studio. They take the stairs up to the first floor but when Lydia turns to take the hallway to the elevator Malia shakes her head and Lydia just nods, because she understands, and follows Malia up the stairs to the fourth floor. 

When they push through the doors Erica's prancing down the hallway in just her class leotard, legs bare, a riot of blond curls tumbling down her back. “What's up losers?” she calls out. “We're going to Jungle tonight, who wants to come?”

She's teasing, of course she is. Lydia almost never goes out, and certainly not to drink, and Erica and Malia are barely friends.

Lydia glances at Malia and recognizes the look in her eyes immediately. Like she needs a distraction, a few hours where she doesn't have to think.

“Sure,” Lydia says cheerfully, and slings her arm around Malia’s shoulders. “We’d love to.”

Erica gives them a surprised grin. “Well, well, look who's feeling wild tonight? We're meeting in the lobby at eight.”

“Okay,” Lydia says evenly. “We’ll be there.”

Erica quirks her lips. “Delightful.” She turns around and saunters down to her room, shaking her ass as she goes.

“I don't know if this is a good idea,” Malia says, giving Lydia a doubtful glance.

“Trust me.” Lydia squeezes her shoulders. “A little distraction goes a long way.”

Malia nods hesitantly. “You're not gonna tell anyone about the - the crying, right?”

“No,” Lydia says, and hooks her pinkie around Malia’s. “Promise.”

“Lydia.” Malia leans in close, Lydia can practically smell the salt from her earlier tears. “What did he do to you?”

Lydia wraps her arms around Malia and presses their cheeks together so she doesn't have to look at her face. “I'm fine,” she whispers. “Everything's fine. Okay?”

Malia nods and squirms out of her embrace. “I have to take a shower.”

“Okay. Go down to the lobby together?”

Malia nods, looking a little relieved. “Okay.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

Malia twitches but she presses her lips together in a firm line and nods. “Yeah. Sorry” -

“Don't apologize. Look, I'll meet you by the elevators, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” Malia tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Do you think it's okay if I invite Kira?”

“Sure,” Lydia says gently. “Go get ready, okay?”

“Okay.” For a moment Malia's expression clears and she looks very young, like a lost and slightly feral child, and something inside Lydia's chest aches. 

Peter may have touched Lydia, pushed her, scared her, made her relive her greatest fear, but Peter _made_ Malia, lives inside her, his DNA runs through her veins.

The child of a monster.

Lydia watches Malia walk down the hall and go into her room, holding up one hand at Lydia when she lingers in the doorway, looking sad and solemn, before shutting her door loudly with a slam. Lydia exhales slowly and takes out her keys, unlocks her dorm room and goes inside, drops her bag and slides down the wall to sit with her head cradled in her hands.

Malia Tate is Peter Hale’s secret daughter.

Holy shit.

Lydia stays on the floor for a few minutes until she shakes out of her trance. She still has to pack, she grabs her weekender and starts opening dresser drawers, choosing clothes at random to stuff in her bag. She really only needs leggings and a few leotards, Scott and Stiles have an away game tomorrow so she doesn't have any plans for the weekend beyond practicing and hanging out with her mom. She throws her laptop into her duffle along with her cosmetics bag and zips the weekender shut. Lydia picks the bag up and slings the strap across her chest, grabs her dance bag and runs her stuff down to her mother's office.

Lydia tells her that she's staying at school late because all the girls are going out for frozen yogurt and she'll get a ride home with someone, and her mother just smiles blithely and tells her not to stay out too late. Lydia takes the elevator back up to the fourth floor, still in shock, trying to reconcile Peter’s cool coloring with Malia's golden skin and warm brown eyes as she opens the door to her room and walks in.

“Hey,” [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533346380713) says, where she's sitting on the edge of her bed sliding her bare feet into her Uggs. “What're you still doing here?”

“Any interest in going to Jungle tonight?”

Allison giggles, looking a little shocked. “Oh my god, are you really going out with Erica?”

Like Lydia would need an exceptionally good reason to go out clubbing. 

_What did he do to you?_

Lydia shrugs, nonchalant. “I need a night off.”

“You deserve it,” Allison says sweetly. “You've been working crazy hard.”

“You want to come?”

“Can't.” Allison shoots her a wistful smile. “Isaac and I are going to practice for a few hours. The lifts in Romeo and Juliet are insane.”

Lydia pushes down a wave of panic at the thought of doing lifts, reaching up to play with the ends of her hair to distract from her sudden anxiety. “Hey, can I borrow your Loubs tonight?”

Allison smirks. “As long as you promise to take good care of them.”

Lydia nods solemnly. “You know how seriously I take designer labels.”

“I know, I'm just teasing. Have fun, okay?” She zips her bag closed and hops up from her bed. “Have a good weekend.”

“You too.” Lydia gives her a quick hug, amazed that she's managing to appear normal right now.

When did she get so good at keeping secrets from her friends that she doesn't even have to _try?_

When Allison leaves Lydia locks the door from the inside and presses her forehead against the wood, just breathing. Eventually she moves, goes into the bathroom and takes her clothes off. She plugs her curling iron in and does her makeup while it heats up, uses clean fingers to apply foundation and concealer, draws on eyeliner and paints creamy pink lipstick over her lips. She uses the iron to give herself a head full of flawless curls and gently brushes them out to get more volume before spraying her hair with hairspray. She walks across her room and peels off her sports bra before examining the contents of her closet. She decides on a low cut black [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533346523605) that she can't wear a bra with and pulls it on, going back to the bathroom to fuss with the straps until she has perfect cleavage. 

The Louboutins are on the floor of Allison's closet, neatly lined up next to her Adidas. Lydia takes them out and sits on the edge of her bed to slip her feet into them, reverently running a finger over the red sole. Victoria Argent may be a stone cold bitch but she has excellent taste in footwear.

Lydia slips her phone and wallet into her bag, turns the lights out and leaves her room. She locks the door and walks down the hallway; [Malia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533346607022) is waiting for her by the elevator and [Kira](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533346731468) is standing next to her.

“Hey, Lydia!” Kira says cheerfully. Her exuberance is jarring and then Lydia remembers that she doesn't know about Malia, _it's a secret_.

“Hey,” Lydia says, glancing at Malia.

“Hey.” Malia gives her a stiff smile. Her face has been washed and she's wearing makeup, smokey grey shadow around her eyes and shimmery bronze highlighter.

Lydia's face feels frozen as she smiles back and presses the down button. Now that she's here she's starting to think that maybe Malia's first instinct was right, this is a terrible idea, because anything involving Erica usually ends in trouble. But then Malia glances at her as the elevator door opens and Lydia remembers that she's doing this for her, to let Malia have some fun, feel like she's a part of something for once. 

Lydia can't imagine what it must feel like, to be dragged from family to family, never really belonging, and then finding out you had a real family all along but they gave you up, or didn't even know about you.

 _It's not like he wants to be my dad_.

Lydia's father didn't stay but he's certainly never denied her _existence_.

When they get out of the elevator they're the first ones down to the lobby, [Erica](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533346834844) saunters out of the elevator fifteen minutes later with Boyd, Ethan and Danny trailing behind her.

“Who's ready to party tonight?” Erica sing-songs, glancing down at Lydia's feet. “Bitch, _where_ did those come from?”

“Allison's closet,” Lydia says with a smug smile.

Erica rolls her eyes up to the ceiling. “Of fucking course.”

Lydia looks down at Erica's sparkly shoes. “You're one to talk.”

Erica's mouth is slick with red lipstick, looking garish as she grins. “You can't deny I have style, darling.”

“Where's Isaac?” Malia asks, looking mildly disappointed.

“Practicing with Allison,” Lydia supplies.

“Erica,” Boyd prompts gently.

“Right,” she says, all business, and pulls out her phone to call a car.

They all wait inside by the glass doors because Malia's the only girl that brought a jacket and the temperature has dipped into the low sixties. Seven minutes later a black SUV pulls up to the curb. Erica glances down at her phone and nods, and they all follow her outside and down the sidewalk. Boyd gets in the passenger seat, the girls all sit in the middle row and Danny and Ethan sit in the way back. They're all quiet on the way to the club, a low thrum of excited energy bouncing around.

Allison's right about one thing, Lydia has been working her ass off. She deserves this, she reminds herself, one night to let loose a little, decompress. 

Forget.

When they get to Jungle they all pile out of the car and get into the line at the entrance to the club. They get their hands stamped one by one and file inside, Lydia's eyes squint as she adjusts to the dim light, the walls practically pulsing with electronic music. Erica leads them straight to the bar and orders three rounds of shots, pulling out a wad of cash and staring down the bartender. They all get handfuls of glass test tube shaped shot glasses filled with neon yellow liquid and Erica holds hers up to everyone.

“Bottom’s up, whores!” She tilts her head back and downs the shot, her face twisting up for a second before she swallows.

“Someone got started early tonight,” Danny murmurs into Lydia's ear, and takes his shot.

Lydia shrugs and does hers, and Kira and Malia quickly follow her. They do the whole ritual again twice more and Erica jumps up and down, eyes glittering in the flashing neon lights. She links hands with Boyd and holds her other hand out to Lydia. “Time to show everyone how it's really done, people.”

Lydia clasps her hand and reaches out with her other hand to grab Malia’s, who turns to link fingers with Kira, Ethan and Danny standing behind her like bodyguards. They all weave through the crowd, pushing through gaps between people until they get to an open space in the middle of the dance floor. Erica grins and spins in a circle, a lazy smile on her face as she raises her arms above her head, Boyd shuffling next to her, bobbing his head.

Lydia can feel all the alcohol come on in a warm rush, heat flooding through her body and weakening her knees. She can feel the music throbbing up from the floor and it's so easy like this, to let go, let the music inform her body how to move. Even though she doesn't dance for fun very often she knows why Erica loves this - it feels so good, to move this way, to give in to the pleasure of shaking her hips, bending her knees, throwing her body in any direction she pleases. She doesn't have to be perfect now, she isn't being judged and she isn't judging herself. She just _moves_ , closing her eyes as she leans back against Ethan’s chest to dance with him and Danny.

Time slips away, Lydia lets herself get lost in the lights and the swaying bodies. Kira and Malia are dancing face to face, hands on each other's hips. Erica's fooling around with Boyd, grinding with one of her legs slung up over his shoulder. Lydia reaches up and runs her fingers through her curls, letting her head fall back. She feels numb, like she's nothing but muscles and tendons and bones moving to the beat of the music. Nothing hurts, she isn't afraid or worried or stressed right now and it feels so good, to just surrender to it.

Eventually she realizes she has to go to the bathroom, badly, and stumbles through the crowd of people to the alcove across the bar where the bathrooms are. A waitress passes by her with a tray of Jell-O shots and Lydia snatches one up and tosses it back. She has to wait in line for the bathroom, arms crossed over her chest, leaning her head against the wall because it suddenly feels very heavy. She feels a strange unexpected wave of panic when she realizes this is the first time she's ever been this drunk without Stiles. It makes her miss him with a horrible sharp ache, thinking of his eyes, his soft hands, his body lean and solid against hers.

When she finally gets her turn in the bathroom she stumbles into the small room and locks the door. She uses the toilet, hovering above the seat so it doesn't touch her skin because _ew_. She washes her hands when she's done, wipes them off with a paper towel and stares at her reflection in the dirty mirror.

_Look at you, my darling. I'm going to make you a star._

She doesn't look like a star. She looks exhausted, her cheekbones a little too sharp, her eyeliner starting to smudge. Lydia blinks, her eyelids heavy, watching her face blur in the glass. She looks like a porcelain doll, painted and primped and prone to cracking. 

When she walks out of the bathroom Malia is right in front of her, leaning up against the wall, like she's been waiting for her.

“Hey,” Lydia says, moving to stand next to Malia so she's not blocking the entrance to the bathroom. “Are you okay?”

“I couldn't find you,” Malia says, her voice a little slurred. “Hey, what the fuck was in those shots?”

Lydia shakes her head slightly, feeling like she's moving even though she's standing still. “The fuck if I know.”

Malia rubs her eyes with one hand, smearing eye shadow all over the side of her face. “Are you having fun?”

“Are you?”

Malia gives her a slow smile. “I can't feel my face.”

Lydia nods in agreement. “Don't drink anymore, okay?”

“Okay.” Malia's head falls forward a little. “Lydia?”

“Yeah?”

“How did you do it?”

“Do what?”

Malia's eyes shine in the dim light. “Get him to choose you.”

_Do you know why I cast you, Lydia?_

“I don't know,” she confesses. 

“He loves you,” Malia whispers. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“Malia” -

“I don't think he really loves anyone like a person though,” Malia continues, words spilling out of her mouth like she's not even thinking first, her tongue clearly loosened from the alcohol. “He loves things. We're all just things to him, I think.”

“Malia, are you okay?”

“I don't know,” Malia mumbles. “It's just - a lot.”

“Yeah,” Lydia sighs.

“Hey, Lydia?”

“Yeah?”

“What's your dad like?” 

Lydia's eyes widen. “My dad?”

“Yeah.”

“He lives in San Francisco. I haven't seen him in a few years.”

“Why not? Doesn't he want you?”

Lydia swallows back a lump in her throat. “I don't know anymore.”

Malia sways against the wall. “It sucks, doesn't it?”

“What?”

“Not being wanted.”

Lydia thinks about the screaming matches her parents had the year leading up to her getting into HSB. “It's complicated.”

“I used to be jealous of you, you know,” Malia says, without a trace of bitterness. “You've always been so perfect.”

“No I'm not.”

“I just mean…” Malia falls forward, her face very close to Lydia's. “I'm just trying to understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Why he picked you.” Malia's fingers come up to her cheek and Lydia jumps at the feeling of warm fingertips on her skin.

“Malia, it doesn't matter.”

“Of course it matters. Everything he does matters.”

Lydia pushes her temple against the wall. Everything feels very blurry, like she and Malia are standing in a black void, their connection to Peter Hale the only thing that exists. “Hey. What really happened that day in the hallway? When I saw you with him.”

Malia's hand slides under Lydia's hair around to the back of her neck and she leans down, their foreheads touching. “He told me to stop asking him questions I didn't want the answers to.”

“What kinds of questions?” Lydia asks in a soft voice.

“I wanted to know about my birth mother.” Malia blinks and a sole tear rolls out of the corner of her eye. “I wanted to know why she didn't want me.”

“You aren't them,” Lydia whispers. “You're not them, you know that, right?”

Malia is everywhere; her face, her hand, hot skin and sad eyes and wild messy hair. “Does he hurt you?”

Lydia doesn't know what to do so she reaches up and runs her fingers through Malia's hair. “I’m okay. I can handle it.”

“He told me… if I asked about her again, he would make me sorry.”

“What about asking Derek?”

“Derek lied to me. He told me he didn't know who my father was.”

“Maybe he really didn't know,” Lydia murmurs. “Maybe he actually thought you were just a distant cousin.”

“I can't trust him,” Malia whispers. “He's too close to Peter, anyway.”

“Yeah.” Lydia thinks about sitting in his office, lying right to his face, because she doesn't know if she can trust Derek either. “I know what you mean.”

“What are we going to do?” Malia whispers.

Lydia blinks heavily, starting to regret that fourth shot. “We do our jobs. We dance, we keep our heads down, and we get through the showcase.”

“I don't know if I can do that.”

“You have to,” Lydia whispers fiercely. 

“How do you do it?” Malia's voice cracks on the last word.

“Do what?”

Malia's tongue darts out to wet her lips. “Deal with it.”

“You just keep going, okay? Just - just stay away from him, keep your head down.”

“I'm not very good at that,” Malia says with a dry laugh.

Peter was willing to risk injuring Lydia in a rehearsal (what would he have done if he had dropped her wrong? _Helped_ her?). What would he do to Malia if she told people the truth? What would he do if someone really crossed him?

“It's going to be okay,” Lydia whispers.

“Are you?” Malia asks. “Okay?”

Lydia nods slowly and reaches down to grip Malia's hand. “Don't worry about me, okay? I know what I'm doing.”

A muscle in Malia's jaw twitches. “That's what everyone thought about Laura.”

The mention of Laura's name, the comparison, makes the walls spin and Lydia finds herself falling into the other girl. “I'm not Laura,” Lydia whispers firmly. “Okay?”

“Sometimes I just want to leave,” Malia says in a low voice. “Get the hell out of here. Go to Paris or something.”

Lydia tilts her head thoughtfully. “Why Paris?”

Malia shrugs. “Boys.”

“You'd bail on all of us just for a cute boy? I don't think so, sweetheart.”

“I'm just… so tired of being afraid all the time.” Malia bumps her cheek against Lydia's. “Sorry, I'm really fucked up right now. I'm so fucked up.”

Lydia thinks about when she wakes up in the middle of the night, heart clenching in her chest, the panic she feels whenever she has to do a lift, how sometimes when she's somewhere small and dark she feels like she's trapped in that basement again and she’ll never get out.

Suddenly the club is suffocating and she's overcome with the absurd idea that if she doesn't go outside soon she won't be able to breathe. It's overwhelming, how much they're all connected, a string of fucked up girls, lost and beautiful and quietly suffering because they're dancers, they were made to suffer, they were _trained_ to suffer.

_Some dancers can't take it._

“I know,” she murmurs, her mouth so close to Malia that their lips brush. “We're all a little fucked up.”

Malia's mouth glides across Lydia's jaw to whisper into her ear. “I'm so tired, Lydia.”

“Hey.” Lydia pulls back a fraction, staring into Malia's dark eyes. “Look, go find Kira, tell her to get you some water.”

Malia stares at her. “Where are you going?”

“I just need to go outside for a minute, I'll be right back.”

“Lydia” -

“It's okay,” Lydia reassures her softly. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“It's never going to stop,” Malia says faintly. “Is it?”

“Come on.” Lydia grips her hand and starts pulling her down the hallway, Malia stumbling after her. When Lydia spots Kira at the edge of the crowd she pushes Malia gently in her direction. “Have Kira get you some water, I'll be back in a few minutes.”

Lydia watches Malia stumble through the crowd, wobbling like a baby deer, until she makes it safely to Kira. Lydia floats away, sticking to the edge of the dance floor, and pushes through the hoard of people waiting at the bar to walk through the front doors, and goes outside. Lydia walks quickly down the block and stops halfway down the street, turning to rest her forehead against the wall of the club. 

Malia's right. It's never going to stop, it'll never be over. How can it be over when Peter lives in her head now, whispers to her inside her mind when she's alone in the dark?

Is that why Laura did it? Did she just need it to be over?

She presses the palms of her hands against the wall, breathing slowly through her nose, waiting for the panic to recede. When it doesn't she counts slowly to ten and when that doesn't work she opens her bag and pulls out her phone. Lydia squints at the screen, numbers and letters blurring in front of her. She thinking about texting but she can't get her fingers to tap the right thing and ends up staring at her contacts list. Her finger hovers over the screen and she taps a name before she loses her courage and presses the phone to her ear.

It only rings twice before Stiles picks up. “Lydia?”

“Hey,” she whispers, wanting to cry at the sound of his voice, relief slamming through her body like a drug.

“Lydia, are you okay?”

“Can you come pick me up?”

“Where are you?”

“Jungle. Do you” -

“I'll be there in fifteen minutes, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay. Just - just stay there and wait for me, okay? I'll text you when I'm outside.”

“Okay,” she whispers.

“I'll see you soon, okay?”

“Okay.”

Stiles hangs up and Lydia drops her arm, leans back against the wall and shuts her eyes. She takes a few deep breaths and palms her phone, turns around and heads back to the club. She flashes the back of her hand at the bouncer and goes inside, stumbling towards the bar. She finds Malia sitting on a stool near Kira, sipping a bottle of water.

“Hey,” Lydia calls out, tripping over her feet to lean up against the bar next to them. “I'm going home, okay?”

Kira gives her a soft look of concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, everything's fine.” Lydia flashes a tight smile at her. “I got a ride, will you guys be okay going back with Erica later?”

“Sure,” Kira says, and prods Malia with her elbow. “We’ll be fine, right Malia?”

Malia nods robotically, clutching her water. “Everything's fine. Right Lydia?”

Lydia drapes her body over Malia in a lazy hug. “Right,” she whispers, and squeezes Malia's shoulder. “Everything's fine.”

Lydia stays with them at the bar until her phone buzzes with a text from Stiles. _Outside._

“My ride’s here,” she announces.

Kira glances at Malia, who's slumped over the bar. “I'll make sure she gets back with us okay.”

“Thanks.” Lydia blinks at Kira, watching her face blur into nothing but a flutter of thick black eyelashes against pale skin. “See you Monday.”

She wanders back outside, her hand trailing against the wall for balance. Stiles’ Jeep is parked next to the curb, hazard lights flashing. Lydia crosses the sidewalk and watches Stiles lean across the console to open the door for her. Lydia grabs it with numb fingers and twists to the side to haul herself into the Jeep. Stiles is in the driver's seat wearing a grey hoodie, his hair beautifully messy, watching her slam the door and buckle her seatbelt.

“Hey,” he says, and reaches over to brush her wrist with his fingers. “Everything okay?”

Lydia lets her head fall back against the seat and shuts her eyes. “I want to go home. Can you take me home, please?”

“Sure, Lydia,” he says gently, and pulls the car out into traffic.

He drives them back to Lydia's house, the radio on but the volume turned low. Lydia drifts, surrendering to her body, frozen and a little too drunk, limbs loose, swaying in her seat every time the car turns. She can't pay attention to where they are, only realizes that they're at her house when Stiles shifts into park and the car stops moving. He takes a sideways glance at her and when he realizes she's not moving he turns the headlights off, turns off the engine, and gets out of the car.

Lydia watches him jog around to her side of the Jeep and open the passenger door for her. Lydia stares at his face, a warm swirl of golden eyes and moles and pink lips, lips that are moving. “Come on, we're here, time to get out.”

Lydia unbuckles her seatbelt and turns to face him. Stiles holds a hand out and Lydia makes the mistake of looking past it and down at the driveway. The world spins on its axis and Lydia grips the side of the car, panic making the air go out of her lungs. 

“Lydia.” Stiles curls his fingers at her. “Come on.”

“I can't,” she says in a thin voice.

“Sure you can, come on.” He steps closer to her and Lydia pulls back, fingertips clutching at the Jeep.

“I'm going to fall,” she says hysterically. “I can't, I'm going to fall.”

“Lydia come on, you're not going to fall.” 

Stiles reaches for her and Lydia bites back a shriek, curling up in a ball on the seat, staring down at the blacktop of the driveway, imagining the sound it would make if she fell, her bones cracking, broken for the final time.

She can't do it. She can't get out of the car.

“Hey. Lydia, hey.” His voice is much softer this time, Lydia can see his feet stepping closer until he's right up against the open passenger side of the Jeep. “Lydia, talk to me.”

“I can't do it,” she mumbles, staring out at the ground. “I'm going to fall, I can't do it.”

“I won't let you fall,” Stiles says. 

“You don't understand.” The tears come out of nowhere and Lydia blinks rapidly. “I can't do it, please, I'm going to fall” -

“I won't let you fall,” Stiles says again. “Lydia, can you look at me for a second?”

She shakes her head, her breath coming in tight little bursts. She jumps when Stiles slides a finger under her chin, his body like a wall in front of her. “Don't look down,” he instructs gently. “Look at me. C’mon, just look at me, you can do it.”

She lifts her head slowly and a few tears trickle down her face. He frowns, sliding his hand up to cup her cheek. “Hey,” he murmurs. “I'm here, it's okay. Lydia, do you trust me?”

“I don't know,” she whispers.

Stiles huffs out a breath. “Well I guess that's better than an outright no.”

“Stiles,” she gasps, because she doesn't know how to say _I'm afraid_.

“It's okay. I'm going to help you down now, okay?”

She grits her teeth, shaking her head and Stiles comes closer, so that all she can see is him. “Hey,” he murmurs, sliding both hands under her arms. “It's okay. I'm going to help you, all you have to do is look at me, okay? Just keep looking at me.”

Lydia stares at his face, his hands warm against her bare skin. Stiles starts to pull her body towards him very slowly, until they're chest to chest. Lydia whimpers, clutching the fabric of his hoodie, but she allows him to get her out of the car. The second her heels hit the ground she collapses against him, burying her face into his chest.

“Okay,” Stiles breathes, his arms coming around her. “Okay.”

Stiles walks her up the sidewalk to the front door, holding her tightly against him so she doesn't fall. Lydia manages to get her keys out of her bag but she can't figure out how to get the key in the lock, like it's a math problem that is inexplicably evading her. Stiles takes pity on her and wraps his hand around hers, unlocks the door and helps her into the dark foyer.

“We have to be quiet,” Lydia murmurs, disoriented without the lights on. “My mom's home.” 

Stiles nods and helps her up the stairs, holding onto her elbow when Lydia almost trips and leans into him to steady herself. When they make it to the top of the stairs Lydia stumbles and gestures at the bathroom. “I'm just gonna…”

Stiles nods, leaning against the wall, and Lydia drags herself into the bathroom, swinging the door shut behind her. She uses the toilet, flushes, and hauls herself over to the sink. She can't look in the mirror, she's too afraid of what she'll see. She manages to brush her teeth, spits, rinses with water, and lowers her head to sip a little from the tap. She's too tired to wash her face, she grabs a makeup-remover wipe and rubs it all over her skin, balls it up and drops it into the trash.

When she goes back out into the hallway Stiles is waiting right where she left him. He pushes off the wall, holding his hands out to her. “Okay?” he whispers.

She doesn't know how to answer his question so she doesn't, just links her fingers in his and leads him to her room. Stiles shuts the door behind them with a gentle click and gives her a confused look. “Lydia?”

“I have to - get this fucking dress off,” she mumbles, kicking off Allison's boots and almost slipping right to the floor.

She falls back against her dresser and bends forward, trapped in her body, the pull of gravity so alluring and she can feel herself begin to panic but then suddenly Stiles is right there, pulling her up, his warm hands on her shoulders. “Hey, hey, Lydia.” His voice is soft and low. “It's okay.”

It's not, she wants to protest, but it's like the words are locked inside her body, just like her fear, and so she just looks at his face, helpless.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You're really fucked up right now, aren't you?”

All she can really do is lift a shoulder in agreement.

“Okay,” he says, quiet and calm. “Just - let me help you?”

She nods slowly, her head feeling too big for her neck. Stiles turns her slowly, until her back is against his chest, and brings his hands to her shoulders. He slides his fingers under the straps and slowly pulls them down, helps her maneuver her arms out from under the fabric. She can feel him breathe against her neck but it's not scary, not when it's Stiles.

_Do you trust me?_

He starts to roll her dress down, inch by agonizing inch. Fingers brush against her spine and Lydia shivers, feeling his touch linger on her back. “Lydia,” he whispers. “What happened to your back?”

“What?”

“You have bruises on your back.” His fingers trace circles over her spine. “What happened?”

“I don't know,” she murmurs, baffled. 

Stiles sighs. “Does it hurt?”

Lydia shakes her head, her hair tickling her cheek. Stiles makes a soft little noise and then he continues undressing her, rolling her dress down over her hips. Lydia turns her chin to watch him bend down to drag the fabric over her hips. She reaches down to grasp his shoulder to keep her balance and Stiles barely manages to swallow back an audible groan, his eyes firmly focused on his task and not where she's standing over him, braless.

“Stiles,” she whispers.

Her dress drops to the floor and Stiles stands up, reaching out to hold her hands. “Step out,” he instructs.

She carefully steps over the bundle of fabric and leans into him, pressing her bare chest against his. She's shaking, her skin cold except for where his hands are touching her, wonderfully warm against her back.

“Lydia,” he says in a strained voice. “You - you need to put on a shirt.”

She gesture loosely to her top dresser drawer, breathing in deep, safe in the circle of his arms. Stiles twists around without letting her go and opens the drawer one handed and digs blindly for a tee shirt. He plucks one out and uses his elbow to shut the drawer, sliding his other hand down to her hip. “Arms up.”

Lydia obediently reaches up to the ceiling and Stiles mutters _fucking hell_ before lifting the shirt over her head and helping her slide her arms through her sleeves. Stiles pulls the collar of the shirt down over her head and Lydia blinks, everything going fuzzy, gripping his hips to stay upright as he brushes her hair away from her face.

“Hey.” Stiles runs a thumb over her cheekbone. “There you go. You okay?”

She blinks at him but she can't get anything to come into focus. She's lost in the dark, his face the only thing she sees. “What are you doing here?”

His forehead furrows as he cradles her jaw in his hand. “You called me, remember?”

“No, I mean...” Her throat feels tight, like she's going to cry. “What are you _doing_ here?”

“Hey.” His other hand cups the back of her head and Lydia pushes back against the gentle pressure. “Lydia, did something happen?”

Her vision blurs over. “I'm sorry,” she whispers. “I didn't know what to do, I shouldn't have called you, I'm sorry” -

“No, no, hey.” Stiles guides her head down and Lydia buries it in his shoulder. “You can always call me, okay? It's okay.”

She nods into his sweatshirt and shuts her eyes, taking big shuddering breaths. Stiles runs his fingers through her hair and presses a kiss to the top of her head. “You want to lie down?”

She nods against his shoulder and Stiles walks them backwards to her bed, yanks the covers back with one hand and helps her crawl onto the mattress. Lydia curls over onto her side, watching him lift the comforter up over her and smooth it across her shoulders.

“I'm going to get you a glass of water, okay?” he whispers.

She nods, pulling her knees up to her chest. Stiles gives her a crooked smile and walks out of her room. Lydia groans softly and mashes her face into her pillow, she can't believe she's doing this, letting him see her like this, but it's too late now and she's just so tired, she wants to shut her eyes and fall asleep to the feeling of his body warm and real next to hers.

He comes back a minute later with a full glass of water. He helps her lift her head up; Lydia takes a few gulps before pulling away and Stiles leans over to set the glass on the nightstand. “Are you going to be okay?” he asks softly.

Lydia opens her mouth to assure him that she’ll be fine but instead she says, “Stay.”

He gets one knee up on the bed and reaches out to tuck her hair behind her ear. “Lydia” -

“Please,” she whispers. “Just for a little while.”

“You sure?” he asks, his eyes very wide.

She nods, turning her head to brush her cheek against his palm. Stiles exhales sharply and comes all the way up on her bed, pausing to kick off his sneakers. He doesn't get under the covers but he stretches out next to her on his side, face inches away from hers.

“Are you sure you're okay?” he says softly.

Lydia swallows. “Long night.”

“Do you need anything?”

She slides forward a little and snuggles her face under his chin. Stiles makes a surprised noise but them he reaches up and wraps his hand around the back of her neck. “Lydia?”

“Just - stay,” she mumbles, right up against his throat. “Please. Just until I fall asleep.”

Lydia can feel it when he exhales. “Okay.”

Her eyes flutter shut and she reaches up to curl her fingers in his hoodie. “Don't go yet.”

Stiles palms the back of her head. “I won't.”

“Okay.”

“It's okay,” he murmurs. “I'm not going anywhere.”


	15. melt into me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To top off my week from hell my laptop died last night so I'm posting this with a very old iPad and praying it works. Yeesh.

Lydia wakes up in the morning with a dry mouth and a pounding headache. She winces at the rays of sunlight coming in through the window and reaches blindly towards her nightstand for her phone. Her fingers catch on a scrap of paper first and she holds it in front of her face to read a line of spiky script: _Call me when you're up - Stiles._

Last night comes flooding back to her like watching a movie in reverse - Stiles putting her to bed, driving her home, picking her up from Jungle - did she _cry_ in front of him?

Lydia buries her face in her pillow and groans, her right hand sweeping across the glossy mirrored surface of her nightstand until it connects with her phone. She reluctantly pulls up Stiles’ number and hits _call_ because he took care of her last night and she owes him. She thinks back to Stiles asking her to text him that night when they went to the diner after she almost -

“Hey, Lydia, you're up! How're you feeling?”

“How do you think?” she mutters darkly.

He laughs sympathetically into the phone. “I bet.”

“Is there any particular reason you wanted me to call you as soon as I was possibly able to?”

“Oh, well, Scott and I have that away game today. I've got to be at school in like an hour to meet the bus but I was wondering if I could stop by your house first?”

“Right now?” she asks dumbly.

“More like fifteen, twenty minutes?”

“Okay.”

“Okay! Cool, I'll uh, see you soon then.”

“Okay Stiles.”

“Bye Lydia.”

She hangs up and buries her face in her hands. She takes a deep breath and drags herself off the bed and down the hall to the bathroom. She winces when she looks in the mirror; her skin is too pale, bruised puffy circles under her eyes, and her hair is a matted tangle of curls.

Lydia dabs on eye cream and lets it sink into her skin while she attacks her hair with detangler spray and a brush. Once she gets the knots out she brushes it all to the side, quickly braids her hair and ties it off with an elastic band. She liberally applies concealer under her eyes and a layer of tinted moisturizer to her face, adding blush on top so she doesn't look so hungover. Lydia brushes her teeth and spits, takes two Excedrin out of the bathroom cabinet and swallows them dry.

Back in her room Lydia pulls off her tee shirt and changes into [sweats](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533349372753) and the pullover Allison got her for her birthday. She takes the glass of water from the nightstand and gulps it down, presses her hands to her temples and starts to make her way downstairs. She must have been moving even slower than she thought because the bell rings when she's only halfway down the stairs.

She hurries down the rest of the steps; when she gets to the bottom she crosses the foyer and opens the front door. Stiles is standing on her front porch in his red hoodie and a pair of jeans, holding a white paper bag from the cafe in one hand and a cardboard cup of coffee in the other.

“Hey,” he says with a warm smile, holding everything out to her. “How are you?”

“What did you bring me?” Lydia takes the bag and the coffee, turning the cup to read the drink order. _Nonfat latte_.

“Hangover food,” he explains. “Thought you could use it.”

“Oh.” Lydia twists around and places everything on the entry table. “Thanks.”

Stiles leans against the doorway, the sunlight golden on his face, lips curved up in a soft smile. “You didn't answer my question.”

“What question?” she asks innocently.

“How are you?”

“I'm fine.”

Stiles’ mouth twists a little to one side. “Is your back okay?”

She blinks at him. _Her back?_ “What?”

“You had these bruises. On your back.” When Lydia continues to stare blankly at him he reaches up and scratches the back of his neck. “I'm uh, guessing you don't remember?”

She shakes her head and then winces, pressing her palms against her throbbing temples. “That would be a no.”

“Hey.” Stiles reaches out and cups the side of her head, laying his hand over hers. “Headache?”

“Yeah.”

Stiles wraps his other arm around her and Lydia softens into the hug, finding that space where her head fits against his shoulder. He runs his fingers over her back, tiptoeing them up and down her spine very lightly, like he's afraid of hurting her. “I kind of wish I didn't have a game today,” he confesses.

“Why?” she murmurs, sliding her hand under the tee shirt that's hiding beneath his sweatshirt to cup his hip.

“Lydia.”

She tilts her head up and he's right there, looking down at her. “What?” she whispers.

He furrows his brow but then he tilts his head down and brings his lips to hers, so softly, waiting for her to kiss him back before parting her lips with his tongue. Lydia sighs into his mouth, flicking the tip of her tongue against his. He catches her bottom lip between his teeth and holds it there for a second before pulling away and pressing his forehead against hers.

“I have to go soon,” he murmurs.

“Okay,” she whispers, and kisses him again.

Lydia melts into him, the sunlight warm on her cheek as Stile coaxes her mouth open with firm lips. She wants to crawl under his skin, wrap around his lean muscles and bones and lose herself in the beat of his heart that she can feel pounding against her chest. His hands come to both side of her face and he cradles her head in his palms, like he’s trying to suck the pain away. It almost works too, gentle pressure and heat that makes everything fade away until the only thing that exists is him.

She kisses him until she gets a little dizzy, fisting her hands in his sweatshirt as Stiles slowly pulls away. “Are you gonna be okay?” he asks.

“I'll be fine.” She smooths invisible wrinkles from his collar. “Have a good game, okay?”

“Okay.” He bends over and kisses her one more time, sliding his fingers down her braid and tugging on the end of it, a fond smile on his face. “Feel better.”

“Thanks.”

“I'll talk to you when I get back?”

“Are you coming home tonight?”

“Yeah, late, probably.”

“You should text me,” she suggests.

He grins. “Okay.”

“Just so I know you got back okay,” she says quickly.

His smile widens. “Yeah, okay.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Go, you have a bus to catch.”

“You gonna miss me?” Stiles asks cheekily.

“Maybe,” she murmurs, giving him a sly look, and rises up on her tiptoes to kiss him, sliding one hand around the back of his neck to grip his hair. 

Stiles groans into her mouth and Lydia pulls away a little to smirk at him, delighted. “Are you going to miss me?”

“So much,” he blurts out, and gives her a sloppy kiss, open mouthed and wet and earnest.

“I thought you needed to go,” she says against his lips, scratching his scalp with her nails.

“I do,” he mumbles, and kisses her again.

*

By the time Stiles leaves the food has gone half-cold. Lydia carries everything to the counter in the kitchen, transfers the latte into a mug and heats it back up. She sips at the drink while she opens the Styrofoam container of food - French toast.

Her stomach clenches.

Lydia gets a plate and transfers the food to it, heats it up for thirty seconds in the microwave and carries everything to the kitchen table. She eats slowly, taking small careful bites while reading the news on her phone. The caffeine and the food help, she doesn't feel as shaky when she's done.

It's already past noon, she's missed her morning practice entirely, not like she'd get anything accomplished in this state. She fills her water bottle up and goes upstairs, takes her clothes off in her room and walks naked to the bathroom. She turns on the light and the fan, walks over to the tub and turns the water on. Lydia stands in front of the sink while the water heats up, turns around and twists over her shoulder to stare at her back in the mirror.

There are bruises, just like Stiles said. Three small blue-green circles, right over the vertebra in between her shoulder blades. 

Huh.

She glances down at her bare feet on the bath mat and thinks about those nights when she can't sleep, doing hundreds of crunches on the hard tiled floor of the bathroom at school so she doesn't wake up Allison.

She glares at herself in the mirror, feeling betrayed by her body, the evidence of all her obsessive work written on her skin. 

She's supposed to be strong, she's not supposed to break and bleed like this.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

She spends a long time in the shower. She washes her hair and coats the wet strands with deep conditioner, shaves her legs and stands with the hot water pounding on her shoulders. Eventually she rinses the conditioner out of her hair, turns the water off and steps out of the shower. She wraps a towel around herself and squeezes the excess water out of her hair. Lydia sprays salt spray into it and attacks it with a wide toothed comb, determined to get out any knots that she missed before.

When she's satisfied with her hair she braids it off, exchanges her towel for her bathrobe and shuffles back to her room. She feels completely physically drained and she sinks down on the edge of her bed for a moment, silently berating herself for last night. She has a month until the showcase, she doesn't have days she can afford to waste like this. 

Too late though, she'll have to work harder tomorrow. For now she feels well enough to at least _move_ if not do a real workout so she begrudgingly changes into floral print [leggings](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533349497871) and a cropped workout tank, pulls on a pair of socks, and unrolls her yoga mat. She grabs her laptop from her weekender and powers it on, sets it down on the floor in front of her mat and skims through her movies.

She starts up Breakfast at Tiffany’s and lies down on her back as the familiar chords of Moon River begin. She just breathes for awhile, hands resting on her ribcage, relaxing all her muscles, imagining her body sinking into the floor. Once her head is clear and her muscles feel nice and loose, no excess tension, she pulls her legs in towards her chest and begins to stretch. She takes plenty of breaks to hydrate, going extra slow. Once she gets warm she lies down on each side to do Pilates leg lifts, slowly lowering her top leg up and down before planting her foot on the floor to do the same thing with her bottom leg.

She can't handle the idea of doing core today so she flips over her hands and knees to do kickbacks, lifting her legs behind herself one at a time, first with a bent knee, then straight back and up towards the ceiling. Her headache doesn't totally go away but it fades into the background as she moves, unpleasant but mostly ignorable. Onscreen Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly is smoking a cigarette with an absurdly long cigarette holder at one of her parties, accidentally lighting a guest’s purple hat on fire. Lydia smiles quietly to herself as she stretches out on her stomach to do super girls, peeling her torso up off the floor to strengthen her back, arms outstretched in front of her.

Lydia's mother comes back from the HBC office around dinnertime, bringing in a bag of Chinese takeout with her. They eat at the table; Lydia picks at her cashew chicken while her mother drinks a glass of Chardonnay and eats vegetable fried rice straight from the carton. Lydia stares down at her phone while she spears a piece of chicken with her fork, idly thinking about texting Stiles. She told him to text her when he was coming back though, so if she texts him before then he’ll know she's been thinking of him, that she misses him, that she has nothing better to do on a Saturday night but text a boy.

It's all _true_ of course, but Stiles doesn't need to know that. It makes her feel slightly sick at the thought of showing him that, the secret place inside of her that goes soft when she's with him, some private squishy vulnerable thing that feels too fragile to not protect.

Her mother walks over to the counter to retrieve the bottle of wine and fill her glass back up. “Are you going out tonight?”

Lydia shakes her head and flips her phone over so she can't see the screen.

“Really?” Her mother sounds surprised.

“Really.” Lydia puts her fork down and snaps the plastic lid over the rest of her food, pushes back from her chair and puts the container in the fridge to save for later.

“I don't think you've stayed home on a Saturday night since before the Gala,” her mom comments.

Lydia stops, momentarily frozen as she flicks backwards through her mental calendar. She's right, Lydia’s spent every Saturday night with Stiles for almost two months now. “Oh.”

Her mother gives her a little knowing smile. “Any particular reason for that?”

“Maybe,” Lydia says casually.

“And could that reason possibly have something to do with that boy?”

“What boy?”

“Scott’s friend. The Sheriff’s son.”

“Stiles?”

“What, dear?”

“That's his name. It's a nickname. Stiles.”

“So.” Her mother takes a sip of wine. “Where is this Stiles tonight?”

“He's at a lacrosse game.”

“He plays lacrosse?”

“Mhmm.”

“And is he cute?”

“Mom!”

“What? I'm just asking!”

Lydia lets out an exasperated sigh. “Yes, he's fairly aesthetically pleasing so I suppose cute would be an appropriate word to describe him.”

Her mother begins to laugh. “Oh honey.”

“What?”

Her mother wraps her arm around her shoulders. “It's okay to like a boy.”

“I know that.”

Her mother leans her head against hers. “Want to eat ice cream with me and watch The Bachelor?”

Lydia glances up at her and she can't fight it, not when her mother is trying so hard, and smiles. “Okay.”

*

_She's running. She's running and it's dark, but when she turns she has to stop because a mirror suddenly appears and Lydia stares at herself. Peter Hale is standing next to her in the reflection, stroking her cheek, and Lydia spins away from him and runs and stops and spins and runs, run, Lydia, run! She screams because she's trapped in a maze of mirrors and she can't get out, she has to get out, and she screams and screams and_ -

“ _What did you do? What did you do?”_

[Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533349601173) blinks. She's standing in the dark staring into a splintered mirror, fifteen little Lydias reflected back at her, streaked with blood, and standing next to her is her mother, screaming.

“What did you? Oh god, what did you do, Lydia, what did you do?”

She blinks again. “What happened?”

“You punched your mirror,” her mother whisper-gasps, reaching out and clutching Lydia’s wrists. 

When Lydia looks down her left hand is covered in a dark sheen of blood. Some broken noise slides out of her mouth as her mother pulls her out of her bedroom and drags her down the hallway into the bathroom. The light makes Lydia's eyes burn as her mother pushes her in front of the sink and turns the water on. Lydia stares down like she's in a trance, watching her blood mingle with the water and swirl down the drain. Her mother gets a clean washcloth and makes Lydia hold it over her knuckles while she gets neosporin and a large bandage out of a box of band-aids from under the sink.

Lydia sits on the closed lid of the toilet and watches numbly as her mother dabs the cream over her cuts and carefully tapes down the badange. Her mother kneels in front of her and reaches out to cup her face. “Baby, what were you doing?”

She thinks of Peter’s hand on her cheek and pulls away, watching her mother's face fall. “I don't know. I was sleeping.”

Her mother presses her lips together and exhales sharply through her nose before pulling Lydia to her feet. She doesn't take her back to her room though, she walks her to the master bedroom and has her get in the bed. Her mother smooths the comforter over her and crawls in next to her so they're lying side to side. She takes Lydia's bandaged hand and cradles it against her chest.

“You know I love you more than anything,” her mother whispers.

Lydia nods, her eyelids so heavy. “I know.”

“I just want you to be okay, baby.”

“It was just a bad dream,” she murmurs. “I'm okay.”

“Lydia, you were _screaming_.”

She sighs, her eyes falling shut. “I'm sorry I scared you.”

Her mother strokes her hair with her free hand. “Honey, you know you can tell me anything, right?”

“I know,” she whispers.

Cool lips press against her forehead and she's asleep before she can hear her mother's response.

*

When Lydia wakes up in the morning she's alone. She stretches out on the king sized bed, reaching up to rub her eyes but she stops when she sees the bandage on her left hand. Lydia sits up and glances at the doorway but she doesn't see her mother so she peels back one edge of the bandage and peeks underneath it, wincing when she sees an oozing scab over her knuckles, and hastily pats the bandage back down.

She pads down the hall in bare feet back to her room, stopping in the doorway for a moment. The broken glass and blood is all cleaned up, like it never even happened. She exhales shakily and grabs her phone, her breath catching in her chest when she sees a new text notification. It's from Stiles, received at 11:46 pm, she was already sleeping when he sent it.

She unlocks her phone to read it, smiling when a picture opens above the text. It's Stiles, sitting on a bus, looking wry and tired, Scott's head pillowed on his shoulder, dead asleep. _Heading back. Miss you_.

Lydia traces her fingers over the letters. _Miss you_.

She thinks about Stiles coaxing her out of the Jeep, Stiles taking off her dress for her, Stiles pulling her to her chest and holding her like she was some precious thing and not a stupid drunk careless girl, more trouble than she's worth.

Lydia glances over at the splintered mirror. _What did you do?_

What is she doing?

Lydia takes her pajamas off and pulls on jeans and a light blue tee shirt, grabs a soft pink [cardigan](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533349695084) from her closet and shrugs it on. She goes down the hall to the bathroom, brushes her teeth and washes her face. She moisturizes, unbraids her hair and shakes it out into messy waves before putting on foundation, concealer, mascara and lipgloss.

Lydia stares at herself in the mirror, searching for hints of the girl she saw reflected in the glass last night - someone unhinged, lost, terrified, but this morning her skin is glowing and her eyes are clear. She goes downstairs and puts on her flats, slips her phone into her cross-body bag and wanders through the house until she finds her mother at the kitchen table with a newspaper and a mug of tea.

“Hey.” Lydia leans against the doorway. “I'm going to run to the cafe and get coffee, do you want anything?”

Her mother looks her up and down. “Are you feeling alright?”

Lydia pushes a stray wave behind her ear. “I'm fine, Mom.”

Her mother flips a page of her paper and raises an eyebrow without looking up at her. “Okay.”

“Okay.” For some reason it leaves Lydia feeling annoyed and she turns around without saying goodbye, snatches her mother’s keys from the dish on top of the entry table and goes outside.

The car’s parked in the driveway. Lydia starts the engine, turns the volume of the radio up and drives towards the cafe. It's a Sunday morning so there's no traffic but the cafe is so crowded that Lydia has to park a block and a half away and wait in line at the coffee bar for almost ten minutes. When the barista finally gets to her she orders a nonfat latte and a cup of dark roast drip coffee, pays with her credit card and carries the drinks back to the car. She drives back across town to Stiles’ house, noting with relief that the driveway is empty except for his Jeep as she parks the car. She picks up a cup in each hand, carefully gets out of the car so she doesn't spill and shuts the door with her foot. She goes up the walk and rings the bell with her elbow, trying to ignore the way her pulse has started to race.

After almost an entire minute Stiles answers the door in a grey crew neck and red and blue plaid pajama pants, his hair standing up in every direction. He looks a little rumpled, like he just woke up. “Lydia?”

“Morning.” She holds his cup of coffee out to him. “I brought you coffee.”

He groans and makes grabby hands at the cup. “Thank you.”

She hands it to him, offering a smile. “You're welcome.”

He tilts his head at her. “What's this for?”

“The coffee?”

He nods, picking at the cardboard sleeve.

Lydia takes a deep breath and steps closer to him. “Because I missed you too.”

“You did?” His eyes go wide, like he's shocked by this, the possibility that Lydia missed him the way that he missed her.

“Mhmm.” Lydia rises up on her tiptoes and kisses him. He slides his free hand through her hair and kisses her back, she can taste the coffee on his tongue.

They separate slowly, his hand drifting through the ends of her hair. “How was the rest of your day?” he asks, leaning against the doorway.

“It was okay.” She takes a sip of her coffee and Stiles suddenly frowns, reaching out to grasp her wrist, turning her hand towards him.

“What happened?” he asks sharply, running his fingers along the edge of the bandage. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“I'm fine,” she says quickly, yanking her hand away. “It's nothing, it's so stupid. I broke a glass and cut my hand.”

“Lydia” -

“It's fine, it's just a scrape, really. It's not a big deal, okay?”

Stiles runs a hand through his hair, which only makes it stand up more. “Look, do you want to come in?”

“I shouldn't.” Lydia gives him a tight smile. “I have to practice.”

His eyes are soft and undeniably concerned. “So come in for five minutes.”

“Stiles…”

“Lydia, c’mon, just talk to me,” he urges, his tone painfully gentle.

“I have to go, I really have to practice.” Her voice is high and shaking, like she might start crying.

“Lydia” -

“I didn't get a lot of work done yesterday, obviously. I'm sorry, I have to go.” She turns and starts to walk away but Stiles lunges forward, spinning around her so he's blocking her path.

“Whoa, hold on,” he snaps. “What the hell is going on?”

“Nothing, I'm fine, it's not a big deal.”

“Oh, okay, so getting hurt just isn't a big deal to you,” he says dryly.

“Stiles, it was an accident, I'm fine.”

“Really? You're fine?”

“Yes, now can we please wrap this up? I have to practice.”

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. “How's your back?”

He practically spits the words at her and Lydia recoils, startled into silence. She doesn't have anything to say, there are no excuses. Stiles isn't stupid, Stiles knows there's no reason for her to have bruises there.

No good one, anyway.

He looks up to the sky and shakes his head. “You know, just because we're whatever-we-are and I'm not actually your boyfriend doesn't mean that I don't give a shit about what happens to you.”

“Okay,” she says shakily.

“So you don't get to act like you getting hurt doesn't matter, okay? Because maybe it doesn't matter to you, but it matters to everyone around you, so you don't get to - you don't get to act like it doesn't, okay?”

Her eyes fill with tears. “Okay.”

“Shit,” he mutters. “Shit, Lydia, I'm sorry.”

She sniffs, looking over her shoulder, away from him. “It's fine.”

“Lydia.” He steps closer to her. “Hey, look at me.”

“It's fine,” she says tightly, closing her eyes for a second when they start to water. “I'm fine.”

“Lydia, come on, no you're not.”

“I'm _fine!_ ” She blinks and a tear rolls down her cheek. “I'm fine, okay? I'm fine, I'm fine, I’m” -

Stiles puts his coffee cup down right there on the sidewalk and wraps his arms around her. Lydia collapses into him, holding her coffee out to the side so she doesn't spill onto his shirt. She swallows back a sob, pressing her face into his throat like he can make everything go away just from holding her.

“Hey,” he murmurs, cupping the back of her head with one hand. “Hey, okay, I've got you, it's okay.”

“I'm sorry,” she sniffs.

“Hey, no, it's okay. Just talk to me, what's going on?”

“I don't know,” Lydia whispers.

“Lydia,” he murmurs.

She squeezes her eyes shut and tears roll onto his shirt. “I really missed you.”

Stiles kisses the side of her head, his fingers threading through her hair. “Lydia, whatever you're going through… you don't have to go through it alone.”

She forces herself to take a deep breath and just _be_ here, safe in the daylight, Stiles’ arms around her. “I'm just really stressed out about the showcase.”

“You need to relax.” His voice sounds a little stern. “You're going to make yourself sick.”

“I don't have time to relax.”

“Then you need to make time.” His finger slides under her chin so that she has to look at him. “I'm serious, Lydia. You can't keep going like this forever.”

She doesn't know what to say, she doesn't know how to explain to him that it's just not possible, that she's never going to be able to relax with Peter Hale taking up residence in her mind, tormenting her in her sleep. She can't even tell Allison, how can she possibly tell Stiles about the things Peter did to her, show him all the ways she's secretly broken inside?

“Maybe,” she says, a little breathless. “Maybe you could help me with that.”

Stiles gives her a cocky grin. “Oh, I'm _excellent_ at that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His expression grows serious again. “But you have to let me.”

She licks her lips, aware of the way his eyes flick down to her mouth. “Okay.”

Stiles nods and kisses the top of her head. “Okay.”

*

On Monday night [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533349813435) goes down to the basement after dinner because Allison wants Lydia to watch her and Isaac practice. Lydia hasn't seen them dance Romeo and Juliet yet, they've mostly been practicing on the weekends when no one’s around. Lydia pulls her earbuds out when she reaches the studio that Allison and Isaac have reserved for tonight; she wraps the cord around her phone and pulls open the door.

Isaac and [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533349901550) are standing in the center of the studio, talking quietly with each other. Scott's here too, sitting on the floor against the mirror, a homework packet spread out over his lap.

“Hey!” Allison calls out. “Thanks for coming, we're gonna start in a minute, sit wherever.”

Lydia nods and walks along the mirror towards Scott to sit down next to him, crossing her legs. “Hey.”

Scott looks up from his homework to offer her a grin. “Hey Lydia, how's it going?”

“I'm okay.” She makes sure her phone is on silent before pulling her right foot over her left thigh and leans forward to stretch. 

Scott tilts his head down towards her. “I heard you and Stiles made up,” he whispers conspiratorially.

Lydia shrugs and unwinds her legs to do the stretch on the other side. “You told me to talk to him.”

Scott squeezes her shoulder. “I'm glad you guys worked it out.”

Lydia can't help but smile a little. “Me too.”

“Okay!” Allison smiles nervously at them. “I think we're ready.”

Scott and Lydia both nod and settle back, waiting for Allison and Isaac to set up. Allison walks over to the sound system and plugs her phone in while Isaac gets ready in the center of the studio, reaching down to roll up the bottoms of his black sweatpants. The music starts and Isaac sways along, marking until he gets to the section they're working on. Isaac leaps out for a tour jeté that goes into a double pirouette, his leg in attitude derrière. He does a few more small jumps that go into a turn combination as Allison runs towards him from stage left.

Allison grabs Isaac's left hand and brings it to her cheek. She looks sideways at him, giving him a tender smile as he pulls away from her, her hands cupped over her face where his hand touched her. They scatter to opposite sides of the studio and then Isaac comes running from stage right and goes into a series of incredible leaps. Lydia sits up a little to watch him, those long legs launching high up in the air as he jumps in a large circle around the room, his curls flopping around as he moves. He ends up back towards stage right and closes his legs together, and gestures to Allison. She runs across the studio from stage left, arms stretched out like she's flying, and comes right in for a series of assisted pirouettes, his hands spinning her by the waist.

Allison opens up at the end of the last turn, doing a rond de jambe en l’air to bring her leg into an arabesque. It leaves Lydia a little breathless, riveted by the beauty of Allison's extensions. How can she even think about giving this up when she's so good at it, so naturally talented?

Isaac lifts Allison, just a little, and he swings her back and forth across his body, her slim arms stretching out to each side. She turns to face him and he goes down on one knee, left arm raised in the air. Allison links her right hand through his, does a quick turn en pointe and drops her body across his shoulders, lying down on her back. Her hand stays linked in his and her right leg stretches out across his right arm, his hand wrapped around her shin. Isaac spins her in a circle and then swings her legs down towards the floor while the top half of her body is still slung over him, the arch of her back pressed against his neck.

Lydia holds her breath as Isaac swings Allison back up on his shoulders and then down again at the floor as he walks sideways towards stage left. He finally puts Allison down and she spins to face him. Isaac steps backwards, holding his arms out like an invitation. The choreography repeats from the beginning, they do the assisted turns into the rond de jambe en l’air again and Isaac swings Allison from side to side. It repeats one more time and Allison takes the arabesque into a full turn as Isaac spins with her, and then they stand facing the audience, like they're about to perform a reverence, and Allison leaps into Isaac’s arms.

She slings her left arm around his shoulders as his arms come around to hold onto her waist and legs. Isaac carries her for a few steps and then lets her go, holding her lightly while Allison does a few extensions, showing off her lovely legs. They run back and forth across the studio and Allison does a beautiful high arabesque before they do another lift, Isaac spinning with Allison in his arms, her legs split apart. They do another assisted turn and then Isaac picks her up and swings Allison over his shoulder so she's hanging upside down, her legs perfectly straight and pointed up at the ceiling, her torso against his side and her arms dangling elegantly down towards the floor, fingers resting against his thigh.

Lydia has to pull her knees into her chest, thinking of how easy it would be for Isaac to let go, imagines Allison plummeting head-first into the floor. She jumps when she feels Scott’s hand on her shoulder. She glances sideways at him and he offers her a gentle look. _Okay?_ he mouths. She nods shortly and looks back to Allison and Isaac but she leans into his touch, just a little, and Scott keeps his hand there.

Lydia has to force herself not to cover her eyes when Isaac quickly flips Allison over his shoulder so she's upright in his arms, cradled against his chest with one leg extended out in front of her. He walks forward a little to put her down and Allison reaches out to brush his cheek, a tender smile of her face. Isaac is staring at her with huge eyes as he reverently brings her to the floor and sinks to his knees in front of her. There's a look of painful vulnerable on his face as he kneels in profile, Allison hovering over him. He reaches out and grasps the edge of her practice skirt, bringing the material up to his face, but Allison pulls it out of his grasp with a saucy smile and runs across the studio, making him chase her.

Allison lifts her leg back in an arabesque and Isaac wraps his hands around her from behind to pick her up and then bring her down into a fish dive. Lydia's breath catches in her chest and Scott tightens his hand around her shoulder.

Isaac brings Allison up only to swing her down into another dive. He walks backwards across the studio with Allison in his arms, her legs stretched behind her, one of his arms wrapped around her waist and the other reaching between her legs to spread over her stomach as he brings her down into another dive and then up again to set her down. Allison take a few running steps and jumps straight up, Isaac catches her and lifts her high in the air with one hand holding the small of her back, Allison's upper body arched up at the ceiling and her legs dangling against Isaac's chest.

He walks her back as he slowly brings her down in front of him. Allison pivots to face him as Isaac sinks to one knee, reaching one arm up towards her. She grabs it and wraps his arm around her neck, arching back as she rolls her head against his touch. Isaac falls forward and presses his face into her stomach as Allison flings her arms back triumphantly and the music fades, leaving the two lovers onstage locked in an ecstatic embrace. 

Lydia glances sideways at Scott, thinking that it must be nearly impossible for him to watch this, his girlfriend being held by another man, their hands all over each other. But Scott is looking at Allison in total awe, his face glowing with pride as he begins to clap. Lydia follows his lead, cupping her hands over her mouth to whoop loudly. Allison and Isaac slowly break away from each other, bashful smiles on their faces, and Lydia can't help but lean against Scott and smile back.

*

“Hands go to her hips,” Peter coaches Aiden. “Slowly, slowly. Take your time.”

It's Tuesday afternoon; they're rehearsing with Peter in one of the basement studios, the only one that has a window, late afternoon light filtering in and falling in random shapes across the floor.

[Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533350019475) looks up at Aiden like Peter told her to, watching his face as Aiden slides his hands down her waist and settles them on her hips. Aiden gives her a quick wink and a grin but Lydia doesn't smile back, feeling the heat of Peter's eyes on the back of her neck. They're working on a new section today, choreographing what comes after the part where Aiden chases Lydia around and catches her in his arms.

“Now her leg,” Peter calls out.

Aiden hooks his hand under her left knee and pulls it up so her leg wraps around his waist while Lydia balances on her right pointe shoe. It's a slow seduction, his hands moving her body until they're pressed together, hips flush up against each other, his right hand still on her left thigh. Lydia tilts her chin up and arches back, swallowing a hiss of pain at the stretch in her ribs.

Aiden's left hand splays across her lower back as she drops her head upside down, pressing her left heel into his back.

“Let go!” Peter shouts. “Lydia, you're gripping!”

She exhales through her nose and tries to relax the muscles in her left leg, giving Aiden the weight to hold but she can't get herself to let go, her right side burning. Aiden helps her straighten back up by pushing his hand against her back, her fingers woven tightly in the fabric of his white tee shirt as he drops her left leg to the floor.

“Again,” Peter snaps. “Let’s see if Lydia can remember how to partner this time.”

She swallows and pulls up into fifth en pointe, legs pressed together. Aiden raises an eyebrow at her and brings his hands down to her waist again. She wraps her left leg around him and bends back against the weight of his hand, head tipping back, trying to relax her left quad, and almost slips right off her pointe, falling into Aiden's hand as he grips her leotard to pull her upright.

“This isn't The Sleeping Beauty darling, I'm going to need you to wake up,” Peter drawls, examining his fingernails. “You're positively sleepwalking through this.”

“Can we take five?” Aiden asks. “We just need a breather.”

Peter rolls his eyes and waves a hand at them. “Well by all means, please, do what you need to do.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm but Aiden ignores him, curling his hand tightly in Lydia's and pulling her outside the practice studio and into the hallway.

“Okay.” Aiden shuts the door with a soft click so Peter can't hear them. “What's going on with you?”

Lydia thinks about Peter’s hand on her face, her nightmare, broken glass, blood. “Nothing.”

Aiden crosses his arms over his chest. “Try again.”

“I'm fine,” she protests. 

“Lydia.” He steps closer to her and Lydia has to look away when he slides his hand around the back of her neck. “What do you need?”

She blinks rapidly, letting her head fall back against the wall. “You're fine. You're not the problem.”

“So there is a problem.”

Lydia presses her lips together for a second. “Has he ever… said anything to you?”

Aiden frowns. “Like what?”

She exhales, she can tell from his expression that he has no idea what she's talking about. “Nothing, never mind.”

“Hey.” Aiden squeezes the back of her neck, just enough to get her attention. “Did he say something to you?”

She shrugs. “Nevermind, it's fine. I'm sorry, I'm just having an off day.”

He nods, working his jaw. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine.”

Aiden strokes his thumb down her neck. “Is this about how he looks at you?”

Ice shoots down her spine. “What?”

“Lydia, c’mon, I see the way he looks at you.”

Malia's eyes shining in the darkness of Jungle. _I've seen the way he looks at you._

“What do you mean?” she asks evenly.

“Oh c’mon,” he scoffs. “Famous choreographer, young aspiring prima? I've seen that movie before.”

“It's not like that,” she murmurs.

“You sure?”

“Yes,” she says firmly. “Come on, we should go back inside.”

“Hey.” Aiden leans in so their noses are almost touching. “If something - if something happened you know you can talk to me about it, right?”

“I know,” she whispers.

“You sure you're okay? I don't like the way he looks at you sometimes.”

Lydia has to curl her hands over his forearms to ground herself. “How does he look at me?”

Aiden's eyes darken. “Like he’d do anything he wanted to you.”

*

[Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533350124304) can't sleep that night. She's exhausted but she can't relax, tossing and turning for a while before she gives up, goes into the bathroom and looks down at the floor, one hand sliding around to the bruises on her back. She sighs quietly and tiptoes back into her room, grabs her phone from her nightstand and her earbuds out of her dance bag, undoing the zipper very slowly so she doesn't wake up Allison.

Lydia takes them into the bathroom and sits down on the floor with her back against the wall, plugs in her headphones, slips the earbuds in and calls Stiles. It's just after midnight so she's banking on the chance that he's still up, her fingers twisting in the cord of her headphones as the phone rings until the line clicks on.

“Lydia?”

“Hey,” she murmurs.

“Everything okay?”

“I can't sleep,” she confesses.

“What's wrong?”

Lydia flinches, relieved he isn't there to see it. “Why do you think something's wrong?”

“Oh, well, I guess when I can't sleep there's usually a good reason.”

“Oh. No, I just… I don't know.”

“That's okay,” he says gently. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Lydia curls over onto the bathmat and presses her cheek against the fuzzy material. “Actually I thought maybe you could talk and I could listen?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, you said you would help me relax,” she reminds him softly.

Stiles laughs into the phone. “I don't know if anyone has ever described listening to me talk as relaxing before.”

“I like listening to you talk,” Lydia whispers.

“Oh, uh, okay then. Yeah, sure. What should I talk about?”

She yawns. “I don't care. How was your day?”

“It was fine. I picked up Scott and we went to school, had a pop quiz in AP calc which I totally crushed because math is my bitch. And then I had AP English and slept through a movie” -

“Are you talking all AP’s?”

“Yeah, well four, English, Calc, History and Spanish.”

“So you're good at school,” she murmurs. It's already working, the familiar warm tone of his voice curling around her, making her body suddenly heavy with the desire for sleep.

“I am now,” he says, sounding amused. “I have ADHD, I'm on meds for it and we've figured of what works for me at this point, but elementary school? Forget it, they couldn't get me to sit still for anything, I drove all my teachers up the wall before I was diagnosed…”

Stiles transitions into a story of going to a child psychologist with his mom. Lydia goes back to bed, making soft noises into the phone so he knows she's still there as she climbs under the covers. She closes her eyes and just listens, imagining his voice wrapping around her body and melting over her as she drifts off to sleep.


	16. i'll make you regret it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's all about the tags, people.

“Head is down,” Deaton murmurs.

[Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533350458589) shifts on the massage table in the back room of Deaton's office, dropping the weight of her head back into his hands.

“Just relax,” he coaxes.

She closes her eyes and slowly exhales. Deaton twists her head to the side and a few of her cervical vertebra go _pop pop pop_. 

“There we go,” he says, sounding pleased. “Okay?”

She wiggles a little back and forth, everything in her neck feels fine so she nods. Deaton moves down to the foot of the table and picks up her right foot, presses the palm of his hand against the arch.

“Resist,” he instructs. Lydia pushes her right leg towards the left, pushing against the weight of his hand.

“Good” he says briskly, and does the same to her other leg. “Legs look good,” he announces. “Strong.”

Lydia gloats privately to herself, exhaling when he cups his hand over her right hip and rocks it back and forth, looking at her mobility, his other hand resting lightly on her ribs. “How are they feeling?” he inquires.

Lydia shrugs. She hasn't had a major problem with them since that time she went running with Scott. “The same.”

“Hmm.” His fingers come to the inside of her wrist. “Are you getting enough rest?”

“Probably not,” she admits. “The showcase is next month.”

“How are you sleeping?”

She blinks up at the ceiling. “I don't know.”

When Deaton raises an eyebrow at her Lydia twists her mouth, trying to decide exactly how many details she should reveal. “I’ve been having problems falling asleep,” she confesses. “I can't relax.”

“You should try meditating,” he suggests lightly. 

She rolls her eyes; he just smiles and pats her shoulder. “It's merely a suggestion. But I recommend getting some rest.”

“I don't really have time for that right now.”

“You're going to have to make time.” Deaton strokes his chin. “Too much stress isn't good for you.”

Lydia sighs and stares up at the ceiling. “So I've heard.”

*

“Where do you want to start?” Aiden links his fingers together and pushes his hands out in front of him to crack his knuckles.

[Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533350530465) glances up at him from where she's sitting on the floor of one of the basement practice studios, tying the ribbons of her pointe shoes. “From the catch?”

Aiden lifts one of his feet off the floor to crack his ankle. “It's your funeral.”

“We need to work on it,” she says stiffly, taking his hand when he offers it to stand up.

“If you want,” he says, and brushes his fingers against the insides of her wrists. “I know you have issues with that stuff.”

“Thanks,” she says dryly, and tries to break away, but Aiden tightens his fingers around her wrists.

“Hey,” he says in a low voice. “I didn't mean it like that.”

“Whatever,” Lydia says, rolling her eyes, giving him an extra amount of _I don't care_. “Can we get started already?”

“Lydia.” Aiden bends down, so she has to look at him. “I'm not going to drop you, you know that, right? You can trust me.”

Lydia looks away, going rigid in his grip. “I know.”

He sighs and lets go of her. “Okay.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Can we start now?”

“Yeah.” He walks away and shakes out his arms. “Whenever you're ready.”

Lydia crosses to the other side of the studio. They warmed up together already so she swings her arms a few times and starts to jump, building up a little momentum.

And then she starts to run.

Aiden comes from the back of the studio and catches her from behind, locking his arms around her. Lydia flings out her legs and Aiden tosses her up in the air. She rotates halfway around so she's facing him and he catches her under her arms, slowly dragging her body down his, chest to chest, until her pointe shoes hit the floor. He slowly brings his hands down to her hips and Lydia picks up her left leg and curls it around his waist. His left hand slides around to the small of her back and Lydia arches back, pushing through that ache in her ribs. She's supposed to let go here, dangle her arms down towards the floor along with her head, but she hasn't quite been able to get there.

“C’mon,” Aiden coaxes, tightening his grip on her left thigh. “Let go.”

She presses her lips together and shakes her head, her fingers tangled in the hem of his tee shirt.

“Lydia, let go. I've got you, you can do it.”

She refuses to release her hold on his shirt, lightheaded from being upside down, the muscles in her right leg starting to burn. “No.”

“Okay, come up.” Aiden pushes against her back to help her roll up, he drops her left leg and she comes down from en pointe. “Lydia, you've got to let go at some point.”

“Sorry,” she murmurs. “I just…”

“Hey, I was there, remember?” Aiden cups his hands over her shoulders. “I get it.”

Lydia ducks her head, closing her eyes against the feeling that Aiden's just another person who sees all the ways that she's messing up, failing at the one thing she's supposed to be good at. 

“Hey.” Aiden squeezes her shoulders. “You just need to relax, okay? You'll get it.”

“I wish everyone would stop saying that,” she says shakily.

“Well it's true.” He slowly turns her around so her back is against his chest and curls over her so his lips press against her ear. “You're so _tense_.”

His hands slide to her trapezius muscles and Lydia sighs, dropping her chin down to give him more access. He dips his thumbs into the muscles on either side of her spine and Lydia swallows a moan.

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

“Don't worry about it,” he murmurs. “Just relax.”

He continues to knead at her back and shoulders and Lydia lets her eyes fall shut. It feels good, strong familiar hands on her that know her body, know exactly where to touch her. It's too easy to let herself fall into him like this, give in to the chemistry they've always had. For a few moments it feels right, to let herself forget, distract herself with Aiden's hands and his broad chest and his lips hovering just behind her ear.

She somehow isn't surprised when he brings them to the side of her neck. He kisses her right under her earlobe, very lightly, and it's like floating - Lydia just drifts there in his arms, lets him trail his mouth down her skin. His hands slide down her arms and tangle in her fingers for a second before sliding back up. His lips move back up to her ear and a whimper slides out of her mouth. She feels lost, disconnected, his hands and mouth weaving a spell over her, shutting out the fear, her manic thoughts, reducing her to nothing but skin that aches for this, steady hands taking her apart until she can't think or feel anymore.

“Shh,” Aiden murmurs, in a tone of voice that makes chills break out over her skin, and strokes her rib cage through her leotard. “Relax.”

His teeth catch on the neck of her leotard and it happens so quickly it gives her whiplash: her stomach turns to ice and her heart clenches, overcome with a sudden panicked wave of irrational fear, reality overwritten by the memory of Peter’ arms around her, his mouth so close to the back of her neck that he could bite into her skin with his teeth. 

She wrenches out of Aiden's grasp, her hands pressed against her mouth so she doesn't start crying.

“Whoa, Lydia, hey” -

“You can't do that.” She doesn't even glance at him, Lydia stalks across the studio to her bag and sits down to furiously unknot the ribbons of her pointe shoes. “I'm not working with you if you do that.”

“Lydia, c’mon, I was just messing around” -

“I'm not doing this with you.” She jams her shoes in her bag before jumping up and slinging the strap of the bag over her shoulder.

“Lydia, would you just talk to me? I didn't mean to make you upset, Jesus, would you just relax for a second” -

“Ask me to _relax_ again and I'll make you regret it,” she says icily, and stomps out of the studio. 

*

“Pull up ladies!” Marin shouts from where she's pacing back and forth in front of the mirror. “Let's see some focus, please!”

Lydia bends her knees in fourth position, watching herself in the mirror where she's standing between Allison and Cora. The music comes in and she whips around for a triple pirouette en dehors. A sharp flash of pain hits her right between the ribs and she grits her teeth, pushing through it, coming down for a clean landing before going back up for another pirouette. Marin moves to stand in front of her, her eyes narrowed. Lydia lands a little shaky on her pirouette and exhales, stretching her arms out all the way through her fingertips before focusing on her spot and pushing down through her standing leg to do another turn.

“Pull! Up!” Marin yells, clapping in between each word along to the rhythm of the piano. “Come on Lydia, pull up!”

Lydia comes down from her pirouette and stretches her back leg, bends her knees and launches up again, lips pressed together.

“Pull up!” Marin shouts. “I'm not seeing it, Lydia, come on. Pull! Up! Pull! Up!”

Lydia turns and turns, eyes blurring with tears, until the music ends. Marin gives her a dissatisfied look and walks back across the studio towards the piano. “Changements!” she calls out, and Lydia surreptitiously wipes her eyes and gets into fifth position.

She pushes through the rest of pointe class, keeps her head down, ignores the knife of pain in her ribs and the tightness in her chest. When class is over she goes across the studio with Allison and takes her pointe shoes off, trades them for her Nikes and pulls a [sweatshirt](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533350622222) over her head, reaching up to smooth back a few strands of hair threatening to escape her bun. She walks out of the studio with Allison and mumbles something about going to shower. They split ways in the hallway; Allison heads towards the elevator to go down to the cafeteria for lunch while Lydia turns and starts walking towards the stairs to go up to her room.

“Lydia! Hey, Lydia, wait up!”

When she glances over her shoulder Aiden is pushing against the crowd of students congregating near the elevator to follow her down the hallway, dressed in the regulation white tee shirt and black tights of level eight boys, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, his gym bag slung over his chest. Lydia sighs to herself and stops, leaning against the wall, because if she keeps going Aiden will only chase her and Lydia's not in the mood for a scene. 

“Hey.” Aiden holds up a hand to her as he gets closer. “Can we talk for a second?”

Lydia crosses her arms across her chest. “Why?”

He suddenly looks serious, dropping his arms down by his sides as he stops in front of her. “I just - I wanted to say I was sorry.”

“For what?” she asks tightly, looking down at her feet, refusing eye contact.

“Because it wasn't cool. What I did. I - I wasn't trying to - I thought you were into it, you know? But I know you want to keep things professional and I get it, really, I do.”

She brings her eyes up to meet his. “And what exactly is it that you get?”

His nostrils flare, just a bit. “It won't happen again, okay? I promise. You and me, strictly professional, from here on out.”

“Okay,” she says sternly, like a warning.

He reaches out for her hand and when Lydia doesn't pull away he links their fingers together. “I just want to be a good guy for you,” he murmurs. 

Lydia stares down at their hands. “I know.”

“I don't want you to think I'm like him. I wouldn't do that to you, okay?”

Lydia stiffens. “I'm not talking about Jackson with you.”

Aiden runs his thumb over the back of her hand. “I want you to be able to trust me.”

“Then don't do things like that.”

“Okay,” he says softly. “I won't.”

“Okay.”

He swings their linked hands a little. “So we okay?”

Lydia nods, pressing her lips together.

“Oh, come on,” Aiden teases, eyes glinting mischievously. “Lydia. Don't be like that.”

She flicks her fingers against the palm of his hand. “Don't push it.”

He grins broadly. “There she is.”

Lydia tilts her head back against the wall. “Look, it's nothing personal. I'm… kind of… involved. With a guy.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “Really?”

“I haven't told anyone yet,” she says quietly. “We're still figuring things out.”

He shakes his head. “You sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you blushing?” 

“Quit it,” she snaps. “I'm not in the mood.”

“Poor Lydia,” Aiden drawls, and squeezes her hand. “Why didn't you tell me?”

She shrugs. “It's new, I don't want it to get ruined by all this.”

Aiden snorts. “Yeah, I get that.”

“Yeah.”

“So we're good?”

“Mhmm.”

He traces a circle over the back of her hand. “Are you gonna be okay for tonight?”

Lydia's stomach drops, they have a rehearsal with Peter after dinner. “Yeah,” she says, and gives him a bland smile. “I'm fine.”

*

When partnering is over that afternoon Lydia goes up to her room and takes her second shower of the day, sprays the roots of her hair with dry shampoo, whips a brush through it and pins her hair back up, and changes into a black [leotard](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533350715740) with three quarter length sleeves and her tights. She goes down to the cafeteria for an early dinner but she can't find anything appealing, the rehearsal with Peter tonight looming over her like a death sentence. It's like she's waiting for a blow that never comes, not since that one rehearsal, but she can't relax, not when she knows what he's capable of, how far he can push her. 

What he can do to her.

She ends up making a salad more out of habit than anything else, gets her ID scanned and sits at a small table under a window by herself, earbuds in, a podcast playing that she doesn't even hear as she attempts to eat, spearing individual spinach leaves coated in nonfat vinaigrette with her fork.

She gives up after only a few bites, unable to fight the rapid beat of her heart, the sour taste in the back of her throat. She knows it's just nerves but she can't fight it, that feeling that she's one wrong step from something really terrible happening. She finishes her glass of water, rests her elbows on the table and drops her head into her hands, breathes slowly through her nose ten times before getting up and trashing her salad.

Lydia meets Aiden in the gym to warm up before their rehearsal starts. They work side by side at the bar for pliés, relevés, dégagés, battements. They do leg swings to loosen up their hips before moving over to the mats to jump. It helps a little, moving always does, when she's this anxious. When it's almost seven Aiden hops off the mat and walks over to the wall to grab his gym bag. Lydia follows him, opens her dance bag and ties on her practice skirt.

“Hey.” Aiden holds out his hand to her. “We got this, okay?”

Lydia can't quite bring herself to agree but she takes his hand, tries to draw strength from him as they walk out of the gym and down the hall to the practice studio. When they go inside Peter’s waiting for them, dressed in his usual jeans and a vee neck, gunmetal grey tonight. He looks up when he hears the door open and gives them a silky smile. “Come on in, you're both warm I assume?”

Lydia and Aiden both nod, walking along the wall to drop their bags on the floor by the mirror.

Peter gives them a brisk nod and claps his hands together. “Wonderful. Lydia, darling, shoes on please.”

“Someone's in a good mood tonight,” Aiden whispers to her as she pulls a roll of athletic tape out of her bag.

She shakes her head minutely as she begins taping her pinky toes and flashes Aiden a cautious look. Peter is unpredictable, volatile, just because he's in a good mood now doesn't mean he’ll still be in one twenty minutes from now. Lydia pulls on her toe pads and slips her feet inside her pointe shoes, carefully wraps her ribbons around her ankles and knots them. Aiden gives her a hand up and she rises up en pointe, does a few bourrés with her palm pressed against Aiden’s.

“Lydia.” She jolts, squeezing Aiden's hand. Peter is watching her from across the studio, chin in his palm. “Are we ready?”

Lydia comes down from en pointe and straightens her spine. “I'm ready.”

She's glad she made Aiden practice the catch because that's where Peter makes them start from. The music begins to play and Lydia walks over to the wall of the studio, waiting for Peter to count her in before she starts to run. Aiden catches her when she's halfway across the floor, arms right around her waist. She feels that familiar burst of fear that explodes when he tosses her up in the air. The feeling throws her and Lydia rotates late, she doesn't quite make it all the way around and isn't surprised at all when Peter stops the music as Aiden catches her and swings her down.

Lydia doesn't have to wait for Peter to tell her to start over, she walks back over to the wall of the studio and bounces on the balls of her feet as the music starts over again. She runs across the floor and Aiden catches her, he throws her up and this time Lydia turns so quickly she almost over-rotates. Aiden just manages to correct her trajectory as she spins in the air, his fingers digging into her ribcage as he catches her and brings her slowly to the floor, making her wince as she slides down his body. Aiden holds her by the waist and Lydia swings her left leg up around him as his right hand comes to the small of her back.

Lydia lifts her chin and starts to arch backwards, pressing into Aiden's hand as she dangles upside down. It looks like a simple, beautiful pose -standing en pointe on her right leg, upper body bent backwards at the waist, left leg hooked around Aiden's waist - but the mechanics of it are incredibly tricky. She has to stay balanced on the pointe shoe of her right foot, her hamstring burning, fighting the instinct to grip her left thigh instead of letting Aiden hold it for her. And then there's the fire burning in her ribcage all the way down into her hip, scorching her with every breath she takes.

“Let go!” Peter calls out.

She doesn't have time to panic - Lydia releases her hands from her grip on Aiden's shirt and lets her arms dangle down to the floor. She can feel all the blood rushing to her head as she hangs there, focusing on the feeling of Aiden's fingers firm on her thigh.

“Alright, very good, bring her up,” Peter instructs.

Aiden slides his hand up in between her shoulder blades, pushing against her spine to help her roll back up. Black spots explode in front of her eyes and Lydia blinks rapidly, pressing her hands against his waist, her left leg still wrapped around him. Aiden squeezes the back of her neck, they're supposed to move on with the choreography today. They're both waiting, waiting for Peter to mold them to his liking. Like clay, something he could sculpt into something beautiful. Or flatten in one swift motion, crush them with his hands.

He walks closer to them, blue eyes bright, scanning their bodies. “Lydia, you can drop your head if you need to darling, it's alright.”

It feels like a trick but she can't do anything but follow his orders so she presses her cheek into Aiden's chest, his hand sliding up to cup the back of her head.

“Oh that's lovely,” Peter murmurs. “This is a transition, that moment that fear gives way to something else. You've been caught, you've struggled, you've ran, been caught again. And now…” He walks in a slow circle around them. “Now you surrender.”

Lydia clutches onto Aiden but she's unable to hide from the burn of Peter's eyes, pain shooting from her ribs all the way down through her right leg and into her foot where she's still balanced en pointe.

“Let's see a rond de jambe en lair with that leg, please,” Peter requests.

Aiden releases her left leg and Lydia straightens it before slowly circling it around behind herself, holding it at ninety degrees.

“Turn her to stage right,” Peter instructs Aiden.

Aiden rotates her so she's perpendicular to his body, right hand held lightly in his, her right leg trembling, every muscle aching from the strain of balancing on one leg for so long.

“There we go,” Peter says, hovering just to Aiden's left. “Left arm goes under the top leg, pick her up.”

Lydia exhales in relief when his hand splays over her belly, forearm in between her legs, and lifts her off the floor, her right leg finally getting a break.

“Lydia, right arm around his neck, good girl, now turn, wrap your legs around his waist.”

Lydia turns in his arms so she's facing Aiden and does what Peter tells her, Aiden's hands coming underneath her thighs to hold her up as she wraps her legs around him.

“Another release, here, straight back,” Peter says softly. “Let go.”

She pushes her heels into Aiden's back and drops her upper body backwards, arms arched over her head, held up only by Aiden's hands and the muscles in her thighs squeezing around his body. She's trapped like this, she can't get upright unless Aiden pulls her up or she manages to release her legs and get her palms flat on the ground in time to flip over.

Her lungs burn; Lydia shuts her eyes against a hot rush of tears, lightheaded, half-waiting to crash to the floor.

“Swing her around,” Peter suggest. “Get a little momentum going and bring her up.”

Aiden spins, Lydia waits for her head to connect with the floor but then she's soaring upright, collapsing into Aiden's chest as everything blurs together - his white shirt, white walls, whitewhitewhite exploding in front of her eyes as her legs release her grip on him and Lydia slides all the way down to the floor, pressing her face against Aiden's knees.

“Well,” Peter says dryly. “That's one way to do it.”

“Hey.” Aiden crouches down and cups her cheeks in his hands. “You okay?”

“I'm fine,” she mutters, and pushes his hands away. “Just dizzy.”

Peter towers over them. “Well aren't you two just adorable together.”

Aiden opens his mouth, probably to snipe something, and Lydia pinches his wrist and hauls herself up, blinking rapidly as her vision comes back into focus. Aiden sighs loudly but stands up next to her, angling his body slightly so he's in between her and Peter. “Are we moving on or what?”

“Very well.” Peter ambles back across the studio. “From the beginning of the section, whenever you're ready.”

They go over it again and again, until Lydia is drenched with sweat, everything in her focused on hanging on, not giving herself over to the pain in her side or the lightheadedness that gets worse every time they do the drops. By the time Peter ends them for the night she's nothing but aching muscles and electric nerves, a slow burning fire down her right side threatening to eclipse everything. Aiden helps her limp out of the studio, practically tripping over her Nikes as they take the stairs up to the first floor and cut across the hallway to the elevator.

“You sure you're okay?” he asks as they step inside.

Lydia presses the button for the fourth floor. “I'm fine.”

He catches her wrist in his hands and when she looks down she understands why he's asking - her hands are trembling.

Aiden shakes his head but he slings one arm around her shoulders. “You're stubborn as shit, you know.”

She's too exhausted to joust with him, Lydia leans up against him as they cruise up to the fourth floor and the doors ding open. “Part of my charm.”

“Hey.” He backs her up against the wall in the hallway, his fingers still curled around her wrist. “I'm worried about you.”

“I'm just tired.”

“Bullshit,” he declares. “Maybe I haven't been dancing with you since we were thirteen but I've been your partner since September. I know how you work, I know there's something else going on. You've never danced like this, even after Jackson.”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” she mutters, and tries to push past him but he refuses to let go of her wrist.

“I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on.”

“There's nothing going on,” she hisses.

“Then why the hell are you dancing like this?” he argues. “You can't focus for shit, you're distracted, you almost fucking _passed out_ ” -

“You're being over-dramatic,” she says sharply, and wrenches her arm out of his grasp. “I'm fine.”

“Is it your ribs?” he asks quietly. “Look, I understand not wanting anyone to know that you're still having problems with them but if it's an issue you have to tell me.”

“There's nothing to tell,” she lies, and begins to back away. “I'm just tired.”

“Right,” he says flatly. “Okay then.”

Aiden turns and walks away towards the boys dorms, leaving Lydia in the hallway by herself. She watches him turn the corner and sighs loudly to herself, trails her shaking hand along the wall as she drags herself to her room and unlocks the door. Allison isn't here, she must still be at dinner with Scott; Lydia has the room to herself. She dumps her bag on the floor and kicks off her shoes, goes into the bathroom to peel off her leotard and tights. She washes her face and reaches up to take out all the pins in her bun, shakes her hair out and stares at herself in the mirror.

Her skin is too pale, sharp cheekbones pushing through thin skin. She trails her fingers down her throat, trips them over her collarbone and down under her breasts. Lydia takes a deep breath and stretches her arms above her head, watching her ribs appear. She slides her hands down them and over her stomach, cups her hip bones in each hand, watches the shadow of her bones shift in the mirror.

“What is wrong with you?” she whispers to her reflection.

This isn't who she is. This isn't who she's supposed to be. She's supposed to be special, she's supposed to be a prima. She's worked so hard and she's so close, closer than ever to getting everything she's always wanted, since she was a little girl with dreams of tutus, dancing the Sugar Plum fairy, and it's slipping right through her fingers. Peter was supposed to make her a star but he's turning her into a black hole, something that turns inward on itself and self-destructs.

What would he do, if she told someone what he did to her? She thinks about Malia, how Peter told her to stop asking him questions about her birth mother. 

_He told me he'd make me sorry_.

If Lydia tells, Peter will make her regret it. She's sure of it.

Lydia turns the water on and steps into the shower on rubbery legs. She turn the temperature to hot and steps under the spray, tilting her head back to get her hair wet. She breathes in the steam as she pumps body wash into her hand and rubs soap over herself. The acute pain in her ribs has faded to a dull ache; Lydia pushes her fingers into the cartilage, imagining a knot of scar tissue hidden under unblemished white skin.

She works shampoo through her hair and rinses it clean, one hand balanced against the tiled wall. She's so cold but the water is hot and the difference makes her a little nauseous, chills breaking out over her skin even as her skin pinks up from the heat. Water runs down her face, obscuring her vision, and everything in front of her dissolves in a sea of black and white dots. Lydia gasps and slips, unable to find a focal point, and her knees finally give out. She catches herself on the lip of the tub, suddenly gasping for air, the bathroom spinning around her.

She manages to haul herself out of the shower and collapses on the bathmat, knees curling in towards her chest on instinct, to get small, protect herself. She reaches up blindly for a towel and whips it over her shivering body, frozen, hot tears sliding out of the corners of her eyes as she clutches the bathmat, swallowing down the bile threatening to come up the back of her throat as everything spins and spins.

She loses time, the next thing she's aware of is the distant sound of the room door opening, boots being kicked off.

Allison.

“Hello?” Lydia hears faintly. “Lydia? Why's the bathroom door open….”

[Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533350793981) comes into the bathroom, Lydia must have been so distracted that she forgot to shut the door all the way. When Allison sees her she blanches and drops to her knees in front of Lydia.

“Oh my god,” Allison gasps, reaching out to press her hand to Lydia's cheek. “What happened?”

Lydia blinks heavily at her, overcome by a strange instinct to close her eyes and go to sleep, safe now that Allison's here.

“Lydia,” Allison snaps, sliding open the shower curtains and leaning over on her knees to shut the water off. “Hey, talk to me, what happened?”

Her tongue feels numb, too heavy in her mouth. “I think it's getting worse.”

“Okay,” Allison says faintly. “Can you - just tell me what happened. Can you do that?”

“I don't know,” she whispers. “I'm just… I'm so dizzy.”

Allison's eyes widen but then she nods briskly and goes over to her bag to pull out her phone. “I'm calling Scott.”

Lydia stares at her. “Why?”

“Because I don't know what to do!” Allison sounds a little hysterical. “So I'm calling Scott, unless you'd rather I call your mom?”

Lydia tightens up a little more at the threat and shakes her head, wet hair falling over her face. Allison holds the phone to her ear and steps out into their room, Lydia can hear her talking but she can't focus enough to make out the words. After a minute Allison comes back into the bathroom, phone clutched in her hand. “Scott wants to know what you had for dinner.”

Lydia manages to reach one shaking hand up to her face to push her hair away. “Salad.”

“Did you eat the whole thing?”

“Not really,” she whispers.

Allison looks exasperated. “I don't know what that means. Did you eat it, yes or no?”

“No,” Lydia bites out, and watches Allison's face fall. 

She holds the phone up back up to her ear, shielding her face with one hand so Lydia can't read her expression. “Did you hear that?”

Whatever Scott says makes Allison nod before putting the phone down on the edge of the bathmat and hitting the speaker icon. “I'll be right back, okay? Talk to Scott.”

Allison walks out of the room, Lydia can hear their door slam shut. She rubs her eyes, wiping away guilty tears.

“Lydia?” Scott's voice floats out of the phone speaker. “You there?”

“Hey,” she croaks.

“Allison's getting you juice from the vending machine, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispers.

“Did you have rehearsal tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Lydia.” The worst part is how disappointed he sounds, like she's personally let him down. “You have to eat before you dance, you know that.”

Lydia sniffs. “Yeah, I know.”

She can hear Scott sigh into the phone. “You've got to work with us here, okay? I know you're worried about people finding out about your ribs and… and the other stuff. But we can't help you if you don't let us.”

She shivers under the towel. “I don't need your help.”

“Yes you do,” Scott says firmly. “So just let us, okay? Please, Lydia.”

“You say that like it's easy.”

“You'll never know unless you try,” he counters.

Allison comes back, she walks into the bathroom holding a plastic bottle of orange juice. She sits down on the floor in front of Lydia and crosses her legs, takes the phone off speaker and brings it to her ear. “Hey, I got the juice… yeah.. yeah, okay… I will… I love you too.”

Allison hangs up and puts her phone down, cracks the bottle open and twists off the cap. “Can you sit up?”

Lydia presses her palms against the floor and pushes herself up, twisting the towel around so she's not totally exposed, and leans her head back against the wall.

“Here.” Allison holds the bottle out to her. “Two hands, okay?”

Lydia reaches out and takes it from her, Allison watches as Lydia brings the juice up to her mouth and takes a sip. It's cold and sweet, it feels like a shock, a good one, as she swallows it down. 

“Good,” Allison murmurs. “Can you do a little more?”

Lydia nods and takes another drink, the spinning sensation stops as the liquid slides down her throat. Lydia smacks her lips a little, she didn't realize how thirsty she was. Her head starts to clear, the tremors in her hands stop as she cradles the cold bottle. Allison sniffs and a few tears slide down her face.

“Allison,” Lydia whispers, dropping the bottle down to her lap.

“I'm okay.” Allison gives her a reassuring smile even as more tears spill over. “Keep going.”

“You're crying.”

“I'm okay.” Allison twists up for another towel and starts to squeeze it through Lydia's hair.

“Allison.” Lydia caps the bottle and catches Allison's arms. 

“I'm sorry.” Allison puts the towel down and squeezes her eyes shut for a second, her mascara smearing as she wipes under her eyes. “It's just - Lydia, you're _scaring_ me.”

“Hey.” Lydia slides her hands down to Allison’s and weaves their fingers together. “Don't cry, I'm okay.”

“No you're not!” Allison turns her head to wipe her face on her pretty pink top. “You're not okay. This isn't okay, Lydia.”

“Allison…” Lydia doesn't have anything left, no explanations or excuses, nothing but the truth, and she can't tell Allison the truth.

She can't.

“I'm sorry.” Allison chokes on a sob. “I just want to help you, please, tell me how to help you.”

Lydia scoots closer to her and Allison drops her head onto her shoulder. “Shh,” Lydia murmurs. “I'm okay. It's going to be okay, don't cry.”

“Please, Lydia.” Allison tilts her face up to look at her and tears slide into her hair. “Tell me how to help you. Tell me what to do and I'll do it.”

Guilt sits heavy in her stomach as Lydia leans her head down to rest against Allison's. “I just have to get through the showcase, okay? Just… just help me get through the showcase and I'll do anything you want, okay, I'll, I'll talk to someone, I promise, just… I have to dance, Allison.”

“Okay,” Allison breathes, blinking wide trusting eyes at her. “Promise?”

“Yeah.” Lydia can barely get the words out. “I promise.”

They sit there on the bathroom floor while Lydia slowly finishes the juice, her naked body curled up tightly against Allison's side under the damp towel, feeling Allison cry softly into her shoulder until her tears finally run dry.


	17. what girls are made of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter contains a scene with plenty of harmless drunk kissing outside of the main pairings. And Stydia, because I owe you guys. Shoutout to Rachel (writergirl8) for, among other things, sharing her headcanons, convincing me to cut this chapter down to a reasonable length so I could post it today, and providing me with truly excellent Stiles outfit inspiration.

On Friday afternoon [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533412450378) does an hour on the elliptical in the gym and almost makes it all the way safely back to her room when she gets caught in the dorm hallway by Cora, who sticks her head out of the doorway of her room and extends one long pale arm, curling her fingers at Lydia. 

Beckoning.

Lydia drops her dance bag on the floor in front of her door and walks down to Cora’s room - she and Erica have the only singles on the floor. Cora's leaning against the doorway in only a towel, her dark hair wet and combed back from her exquisite face. “I'm having a party tonight at the loft,” Cora says without preamble. “You should come.”

Lydia blinks at her, thrown off guard. She and Cora have known each other for years but they aren't exactly friends, they certainly don't socialize in the same circles. And then there's the way Cora says it, like it's an order and not an invitation.

“Relax,” Cora say dryly, lips curving up in a hint of a smirk. “It's just a small gathering really. You'll have fun, promise.”

Lydia tilts her head, she doesn't know what Cora is playing at but she's curious now. “Alright.”

Cora bats thick lush eyelashes at her. “Meet you in the lobby in an hour?”

“Okay.”

“Fabulous.” Cora starts to shut the door. “Wear something cute!”

Lydia nods, amazed, as Cora winks and slams the door of her room shut. Lydia rolls her eyes up to the ceiling and trudges back down the hallway, digs her keys out of her bag and unlocks her door. Lydia rifles through her dance bag to make sure she has everything she needs for the weekend, gets her weekender out and throws in a few pairs of leggings, sports bras, and her laptop, zips it shut and takes both bags down to her mother's office.

Lydia has to wait for an entire seven minutes for her mother to finish up her phone call before she finally hangs up and raises an eyebrow at Lydia's sweat soaked hair. “Are you going to shower before we go home?”

“Actually, I was wondering if I could go over to Cora's tonight.”

“Cora,” her mother repeats. “Hale.”

Lydia shrugs, nonchalant. “She's having a few people over at the loft.”

Her mother gives her a curious look, she knows Lydia rarely spends time with Cora outside of school. Cora is beautiful, she's a Hale, she's Lydia's direct competition. “Alright. As long as you're home by curfew.”

“Okay.”

“And no drinking.”

“Got it.” Lydia stretches and lunges off the couch. 

“And no sex, young lady!”

“ _Mom!_ ” Lydia hovers in the doorway, giving her a horrified look.

Her mother smiles and readjusts her glasses. “Have a good time, honey.”

“Okay.” Lydia barely manages to give her a faint smile as she leaves and takes the elevator back upstairs, mentally scanning her wardrobe, wondering what fits Cora's definition of cute.

She must have just missed Allison because when Lydia gets back to her room it's empty and the bathroom mirror is fogged up. Lydia peels off her clothes and steps into the shower, grateful when the water comes out hot. She shampoos her hair and shaves her legs before getting out and wrapping a towel around herself. She moisturizes and blows out her hair with a round brush, touching up the ends with a flatiron when she's done. Lydia hangs up her towel and walks across her room naked to her closet, pulls on a nude colored bra and thong while contemplating what to wear.

She considers a dress but she's cold and doesn't want to spend all night freezing her ass off so she picks out a black lacy [sweatshirt](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533412671565) and a pair of pink shorts with a scalloped hem. Lydia goes back to the bathroom to do her makeup: foundation, shimmery highlighter, liquid liner, mascara and matte pink lipstick. She turns the bathroom light off and grabs a pair of gold heels from the floor of her closet, sinking down on the edge of her bed to strap them on. She slips her phone and wallet into her cross-body bag and makes sure everything in the room is turned off before walking out and locking the door behind her.

When she gets downstairs to the lobby no one’s there; Lydia sinks down on one of the forest green leather couches to wait for Cora, picking at the little gold studs embedded into the arms of the couch. She looks up a few minutes later when she hears the elevator ding and the doors open. [Cora](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533412756670) walks out, Lydia's glad she decided to wear heels because Cora's certainly dressed for a party: imitation leather leggings, a beaded sleeveless top with her red leather jacket slung over her shoulders, and black suede stilettos. She has her gym bag over one shoulder and her leather weekender slung over the other, a set of keys clutched in one fist.

“I'm parked in the lot,” Cora says as Lydia rises from the sofa. “You ready?”

Lydia smoothes her hands over her shorts and nods, crossing the lobby to follow Cora down the hall to the back entrance. “Where's Malia?”

“Derek drove her home earlier. And Isaac's getting dinner with Erica and Boyd before they come over, so it's just the two of us.” Cora gives Lydia a little smirk and pushes the back door open to go outside.

It's a nice night, mild and clear, but Lydia still shivers as they cross the blacktop. She’s been unusually cold lately, even with the warmer spring weather. It's like the cold has gotten inside her somehow, deep in the marrow of her bones, where layers of fabric and hot water can't reach, like she's slowly freezing from the inside out.

Cora shares her brother’s penchant for muscle cars, her white Dodge Charger is parked in a reserved space at the end of the lot. Lydia watches Cora toss her bags in the back before opening the passenger door and sliding into the seat. The interior of the car is upholstered in cherry red leather that looks disturbingly like blood against Lydia's pale legs. Cora gets in the driver's seat, buckles up and turns the engine over but she doesn't take the car out of park, leaning back in her seat instead and turning to the side to face Lydia.

“So,” Cora says. “You know about Malia.”

Lydia swallows, caught off guard. “What about Malia?”

“Don't play with me, Lydia.” Cora’s tone is even, sweet almost, but Lydia can sense the venom lurking under the surface. “I know she told you.”

Lydia stays very still, hands in her lap. “And?”

“It's a secret,” Cora says. “You can't tell.”

“I'm aware of that.”

“Good. I'm sure you've figured this out by now but Uncle Peter has a temper. So if you were thinking of doing something stupid like say, spilling family secrets that don't belong to you, I wouldn't.”

“And if I did?” Lydia asks casually, as if she'd be that stupid.

Cora curls her fingers into the shape of a gun and points it at Lydia. “You won't. Because you're smart, aren't you?”

Lydia gives her a slick smile, like this is all just a game to her. “That's right.”

Cora grins and pulls an imaginary trigger. _Pow._ “That's what I thought.”

Cora shifts the car into drive and peels out of the parking lot, the tires squealing as she turns onto the main road and drives towards downtown Beacon Hills, some alterna-pop mix blasting from the speakers. Lydia stares out the window, sitting ramrod straight in her seat, pretending not to be rattled by what just happened. She wasn't expecting Cora to show her hand so quickly, Lydia wonders what Malia said to her for Cora to go so far as to plan a party as a cover for this little fact fishing expedition.

Derek's building is an industrial warehouse that's been converted to apartments. Cora parks in the lot to the side of the building and Lydia climbs out of the car, waiting for Cora to retrieve her bags before following her into the building. They take a service elevator up a few floors, Lydia trails after Cora as she walk up to a riveted metal door with a complicated looking deadbolt. Cora unlocks the door and has to throw her weight against it to get it to open.

“Come on,” Cora says, and Lydia follows her inside.

She's standing in a living room that's absolutely cavernous and sparsely furnished. There's a black leather couch and a few matching armchairs arranged around a long glass coffee table, a flat screen tv hanging on one dove grey painted wall. All the way across the room are wall to ceiling windows, moonlight slicing across the shadows on the floor. To Lydia's right is a kitchen, all white and black veined marble and gleaming chrome, and on the other side of the living room is a curling metal staircase that leads to a second floor and presumably the bedrooms.

“Hey!” [Malia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533412890894) comes out of the kitchen in a black cropped tee and denim shorts, barefoot, a flannel hoodie tied around her waist. “Are we making drinks or what?”

“Fuck yeah,” Cora sighs, and drops her bags on the floor before locking the door. “Come on Lydia, you'll love this.”

Lydia tosses a bemused glance at Malia, who just shrugs and goes back into the kitchen.

“So where's Derek?” Lydia inquires.

Malia swings up onto the counter and twists around to get a bag of salt and vinegar chips out of the cupboard. “He took Braeden to some charity dinner for the arts thing in San Francisco.”

“He won't be home for hours,” Cora adds, sounding delighted.

Lydia pulls herself up on a black stool to sit at the kitchen island, watching Cora take a large cut glass bowl out of a drawer and place it on the island. Cora goes over to a walk-in pantry and pulls out three different bottles, one of them looks like sparkling water maybe and the other two have peeling, faded labels that Lydia can't identify. Cora plunks the bottles on the island and starts to pour them in one by one, occasionally picking up the bowl and swirling it around.

“What are you making?” Lydia finally asks, when the mixture has turned a strange shade of purple and little bubbles have formed on the surface. 

Cora gives her a wicked smile. “Old family recipe. Laura taught me.”

“What's in it?”

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” Cora says vaguely. “Can you get glasses, they're right behind you.”

Lydia whirls around and finds a shelf full of glasses sitting in an armoire, she grabs three and sets them down on the island. Cora uses an engraved silver spoon to pour the strange colored drink into all three glasses, picks up two of them and holds them out to Malia and Lydia. Both girls take their glasses and wait for Cora to pick up the third one, holding it out in front of her.

They all clink glasses and Lydia watches Cora take a drink before she takes a sip of her own. It's surprisingly sweet, like juice, but there's a sharp bite underneath it. Lydia swirls it around and takes another sip, feeling warmth slide down her throat all the way down to her stomach. “Seriously, what is this?”

A little smile plays on Cora's lips. “Always so many questions.”

“Excuse me for wanting to know what I'm putting in my body,” Lydia retorts.

Cora leans against the island, her glass cradled in her palm. “It's raspberry Smirnoff, sparkling grape juice, and the secret sauce.”

“Secret sauce?” Lydia repeats.

“It's a family recipe. The sauce is an expensive bottle of something my parents used to buy way back when they were touring.” Cora takes a long drink and tops off her glass. “Derek picked some up last year when he was on tour. It's just alcohol, okay? Relax, Lydia.”

She flashes Cora a tight smile and downs her entire drink, holding her empty glass out to Cora while Malia whistles. “Pour me another?”

“Not exactly what I meant,” Cora says, and refills Lydia's glass.

By the time Isaac shows up with Boyd and [Erica](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533413010414) in tow the girls have moved to the living room. Soft electronic music is playing from Cora’s phone and the bowl of liquor is now on the coffee table along with bags of snacks Malia brought in from the kitchen.

“Hey,” Isaac calls out, locking the door as Erica and Boyd pass by him.

Erica grins, all long legs in tiny leather shorts, and tosses her curls over one shoulder. She saunters over to where Lydia and Cora are stretched out on opposite ends of the couch, each on their third drink, and peers into the bowl on the coffee table. “What are we drinking?”

Cora leans back against the armrest of the couch, a lazy smile on her face, her cheeks beginning to flush. “Help yourself.”

Erica pours herself a glass and reaches into her back pocket to take out her phone and lays it down on the coffee table before she perches on the arm of the chair to Lydia's left. She takes a sip of her drink, raising an eyebrow when she swallows, tongue sweeping out to lick her bottom lip. “Mm, sweet.”

Boyd comes up behind her and Erica pats the cushion of the chair. He sits down and Erica leans back into his lap and passes her glass to him. He drains the whole thing and grins at Erica, handing her the empty glass. She rolls her eyes and slides off his lap, gets up to refill the glass and swallows the whole thing down in three gulps. Lydia golf claps and Erica curtsies to her, a sarcastic smile on her face, and drops backwards right into Boyd's lap.

Isaac snorts at them while he walks around the back of the couch over to where Malia's sitting sideways in the other armchair, tan muscled legs dangling over the arm. Isaac ruffles her hair as he passes her and Malia retaliates by kicking him in the thigh as he moves around the coffee table to pour himself a drink.

Lydia watches from her position on the couch, her body sinking into the leather cushions, feeling a little dazed. She's sure there's something else in the drink that Cora hasn't told her about, because she doesn't just feel tipsy, she feels _good_ : a little lightheaded but not dizzy, mind blank, every muscle in her body relaxed, liquid heat flowing through her veins. She feels like having fun, like she's only just remembered that she's young and beautiful and blessed, like the alcohol has blotted out every trauma, every fear, leaving nothing but a body that pulses with a desire for more.

Lydia tilts her head back and takes another sip, silvery lights exploding on the backs of her eyelids like shooting stars. To her left Erica coughs delicately into her elbow. “The fuck did you put in this?”

Cora stretches out her perfect legs, sly as a fox. “It's a secret. You like?”

“I feel like I'm fucking blasted already.” Erica giggles and twists around to stamp a red lipstick kiss on Boyd's throat. “Drinks made for maximum effect, I like it.”

Malia gets up from her chair to snatch a fistful of tortilla chips from the coffee table and Isaac takes the opportunity to slip behind her and flop into the chair. “Hey!” Malia cries, and launches into the air, landing in his lap as tortilla chips go flying. “You _thief!_ ”

“Takes one to know one,” Isaac taunts, and yelps when Malia digs her knee into his side to force him to move over enough to make room for her to sit half on top of him.

Cora’s phone buzzes loudly and she swipes at the screen. “Danny and Ethan,” she explains. 

Lydia rolls her head back to watch Cora cross the living room to open the door, resting up against it until Danny and Ethan show up.

“You all got started without us?” Danny leans in to kiss Cora’s cheek. “I'm hurt, honestly.”

“Don't be a baby.” Cora sticks her tongue out and slams the door shut. “Come on, we have plenty for you.”

Ethan follows Danny and Cora across the room; he kisses Lydia's forehead and drops down next to her while Danny pours them drinks and Cora settles back into her spot on the other end of the couch. Ethan takes his drink from Danny and lifts his left arm so Lydia can slide underneath it; she presses her cheek to his chest and tilts her head up to meet his smile.

“You doing okay?” he asks softly. 

Lydia gives him a warm smile and nods. She agrees with Erica, whatever the fuck she's drinking is melting her into cotton candy, sweet and sticky and light as air. Ethan grins and Lydia smirks in response, stretching her legs across his lap.

Danny doesn't even sit down for his first drink, just pounds it back and immediately refills his glass before squishing between Ethan and Cora on the couch. “We should play a game,” he suggests.

“I have a _perfect_ idea, hang on,” Cora says, and rolls right off the couch, stepping back and throwing her arms up like she's a gymnast completing a tumbling pass, chest out, fingertips stretched up towards the ceiling, before going into the kitchen.

“Okay, how much did you all have to drink before we got here?” Ethan asks.

“Not _that_ much,” Malia answers, and hooks her foot behind Isaac's neck to fling herself upside down, the back of her head pressed against his shins, and laughs maniacally.

“Wow,” Danny responds. “Okay, scale of one to ten, how drunk is everyone right now?”

Isaac blinks hazy blue eyes, his almost-finished drink dangling from his fingertips. “Three?”

“Seven,” Malia cackles, holding her arms up so Isaac can haul her up by the wrists to sit in his lap.

“Bitch put something in mine, I fucking swear,” Erica declares. “I'm like… an _eight_.”

Boyd shrugs. “Two.”

“What the fuck, seriously?” Erica exclaims, and they all start laughing.

Lydia stares up at the high ceiling, electric lights twinkling in the peripheral of her vision. “How would you define ten? Scales are relative, you know.” She reaches up and trails her fingers through the air, watching the lights blur and shimmer.

Danny snorts. “Lydia's wasted.”

“Look what I found!” Cora prances back from the kitchen holding an empty bottle of Bacardi. 

“Look who's feeling naughty.” Ethan smirks and smacks Cora’s ass as she leans over to place the bottle in the center of the table.

“Spin the bottle?” Lydia drawls. “Really?”

Cora cocks a hip. “Oh come on, you know you want to play. Don't you want to have some fun? Come on Lydia, live a little.”

Lydia blinks at her, watching Cora glitter like a diamond, her sequined top refracting the light. “You don't fuck around, do you?”

Cora shuffles closer to her. “Oh baby, you better _believe_ it.” She flips her hair and turns around, gesturing to everyone. “Come on people.”

Everyone gets up and rearranges themselves around the coffee table. Lydia sits down on the floor next to Ethan and Danny, Erica and Boyd to her left. Isaac and Malia sit down opposite her and Cora sinks down next to her cousin. “Who wants first spin?”

“Gimme that,” Erica says, and leans across the table to spin the bottle.

Lydia watches the bottle blur as it revolves and slowly spins to a stop, landing on Cora. Everyone shrieks and Erica grins, holding her arms out. “Get over here bitch!”

Cora rises to her feet and stumbles around Isaac and Malia to get to Erica. Cora comes down on her knees, practically in Erica's lap, puts her hands on Erica's shoulders, and plants her lips on hers. Erica kisses her back fiercely, earning whoops from Ethan and Danny. Cora pulls away, looking smug, and swings one leg over Erica's thighs to stand back up and walk around to her seat.

“My turn,” she murmurs, and sends the bottle spinning.

It lands on Ethan, they both lean across the table to give each other a chaste peck on the mouth. Ethan spins next and Lydia watches as the bottle stops on her. She tucks her hair behind her ears and turns in towards him, Ethan gives her a sweet, short kiss on the lips and pats her cheek. Lydia flashes him a smile and leans over the table to take her turn.

The bottle spins and spins, finally landing on Malia, who looks at Lydia with wide eyes. “Me?”

“Unless you're scared,” Lydia taunts.

“I'm not scared,” Malia mutters, and pushes herself up to tiptoe around the table and sit down between Lydia and Ethan.

Lydia turns to her and suddenly she's back at Jungle, Malia right in front of her, those big sad eyes and her hot skin and her pain. Lydia swallows and reaches up to cup her hand around Malia's jaw. She takes a deep breath but the panic, the fear, it doesn't come - she's in control, she's on some other dimension where feelings can't reach her right now. Malia's pulse throbs against her fingertips as Lydia leans in and parts her lips, brushing them against Malia's. The other girl kisses her back, tentatively at first but then firmly, a proper kiss, all heat and pressure, before pulling away.

Malia looks at her and lets out an awkward giggle, turning to crawl over Ethan's lap to make her way around the table to her place on the floor. Malia spins the bottle and Cora shoots Lydia a secret little grin when the bottle lands on Isaac. They both look briefly panicked before they compose themselves, turning so they're facing each other. Isaac reaches out and rests his hand on the back on Malia's neck as he leans in, and Malia lunges up on her knees to meet him.

Erica and Lydia both whistle loudly as Isaac and Malia kiss, hot and charged. They keep going until Cora clears her throats loudly and when they pull away Isaac's lips are shiny with spit and Malia looks a little shell-shocked. Lydia winks at her and Malia laughs helplessly, dropping her chin into her hands. 

Isaac takes his turn and makes a loud noise of disgust when it lands on Erica. Everyone starts laughing as they both kiss so fast it almost doesn't count, twin looks of horror on their faces. Erica spins next and _totally_ cheats because it lands on Boyd, but no one has the heart to stop them so they all sit there while Erica and Boyd make out a little.

Lydia licks her lips, her tongue is dry and sticky. “I need water,” she mumbles, and crawls around the side of the couch and pulls herself up to stand, wobbling precariously in her heels.

Everything spins, black and grey, and Lydia can't do anything but laugh, fingernails digging into the leather arm of the couch. “Malia,” she calls out. “Water?”

“Huh?” Malia blinks at her but then she seems to get it, she launches up to stand and walks on long wobbly legs to Lydia, grabs her hand and walks her over to the kitchen.

“Seriously,” Lydia whispers, Malia's palm warm and dry against hers. “What the fuck are we drinking?”

Malia props her up next to the sink and fills up a glass from the tap. “How would I know, it's a family recipe. I'm not…”

Lydia takes the glass from her as Malia trails off, suddenly looking sad. Lydia gulps down the water and carefully places the glass in the sink before reaching out and smoothing a stray wave back from Malia's face. “Okay?”

Malia pushes into the weight of her hand. “Yeah. Yeah, I don't know.”

“Did something happen?”

Malia reaches up and rubs her eyes with the heel of one hand. “I don't look like them,” she whispers. “I don't look like him.”

“No,” Lydia agrees, relieved that when she looks up she's staring into warm brown eyes and not icy blue ones.

“Maybe I look like her,” Malia continues, her voice thin and vaguely hopeful.

“Your birthmom?”

“Yeah.” Malia drags her hand down the side of her face. “Do you think she's pretty?”

Lydia studies Malia's face: warm golden skin, big doe eyes, soft rosebud mouth. “Yeah,” she assures her quietly. “I bet she's really pretty.”

Malia smiles. “Maybe she was a dancer too.”

“Probably,” Lydia agrees.

“Lydia.” Malia bends down, so their foreheads are almost touching. “Cora knows you know.”

“I know.”

Malia suddenly looks stricken. “You do?”

“She told me.”

“Sorry,” Malia murmurs. “I'm not supposed to tell.”

“It's okay,” Lydia whispers. “I understand.”

“I shouldn't… shouldn't have told you, it's not… not your problem.”

“It's okay.” Lydia finds her hand and squeezes. “Malia, hey, it’s okay.”

“I don't think it is,” Malia says, so soft it's barely audible, and presses her lips against Lydia's.

Lydia can't do anything but respond, suddenly lost again, in that small cold terrifying space where she's nothing but a broken girl holding another broken girl’s hand, trying to breath life into her again, give her some physical reassurance that she's not alone. Malia pulls away slowly, looking beautiful and lost, reaching up to trace her lips with one finger, and then reaches out and does the same to Lydia.

“Sorry.” Malia's eyes are huge in her face. “I'm not - I didn't mean to” -

“It's fine,” Lydia murmurs. “I know.”

“It's not like that,” Malia insists.

“I know,” Lydia says again, because she does. It's not about kissing at all really, and definitely not sex, or even plain curiousity or experimenting. It's about having one person, a person whose body pulses with a certain kind of pain only the other could understand.

Two lost girls with a secret held between their lips.

“I wish I was you sometimes,” Malia confesses. “You're going to get out.”

“What about the company? Is he” -

“Derek will never let him work with the company again,” Malia whispers.

Lydia frowns. “How do you know?”

Malia presses her index finger to Lydia's lips. “Shh.”

“Malia.”

“You're so lucky.” Malia traces Lydia's features, her cupid’s bow, the tip of her nose. “You're going to get out.”

Lydia reaches up and catches her wrist, feeling the other girl’s pulse skitter against her touch. “One more month,” Lydia says, like a promise.

“For you, maybe,” Malia whispers. 

“Malia” -

A sudden sharp blare of music makes them both jump; someone's turned the volume up and from the living room Lydia can hear Erica shout, “Now that's music we can dance to!”

“Come on,” Lydia murmurs, laces their fingers together, and pulls Malia back to the living room.

Cora’s pushed the coffee table up against the wall to create a makeshift dance floor. Lydia and Malia fill in the gaps between their friends and begin to move. Lydia latches onto Danny, swinging her hips and flipping her hair, watching Isaac reel Malia in to spin and spin, her index finger held in his hand. Lydia twirls in circles, trying to forget about it, Malia pushing her finger against Lydia's lips to silence her when she asked how Malia knew that Derek won't let Peter back into the company.

What other secrets is Malia holding for the family that won't even properly claim her as one of their own?

Lydia loses time the way she always does when she dances like this - wild and free, no counts, no choreography, nothing but the insistent throbbing beat of the bass line to follow. At some point Cora grabs her hand and mouths _bathroom_ and Lydia stumbles after her, letting Cora drag her into a bathroom that's nearly hidden under the swirling spiral staircase.

“You go first,” Cora suggests, fingers stuck on the waistband of her leggings, an angry red mark on her white skin as she starts to roll them down.

Lydia shrugs and pulls her shorts down, uses the toilet while Cora tugs her skintight pants down to her knees. They switch places, Lydia washes her hands and waits for Cora, who has to jump a little to get her leggings all the way back up when she's done, cursing softly under her breath as she finally yanks them over her hips. Cora gives her a blearily smile and washes her hand as Lydia leans back against the wall. Cora dries her hands on a pale blue hand towel but instead of unlocking the door she comes right up to Lydia and braces her hands on either side of her head, boxing her in.

Lydia stares at her, her clear pale skin and shiny dark hair, dark eyes rimmed in eyeliner, lips naturally red and slicked with gloss. She looks like Snow White, except for the gleam in her eye that suggests Cora would be more likely to offer poison than swallow it.

“Having fun?” Cora's voice is low, flirtatious almost.

Lydia blinks and watches Cora's face blur and distort, then resolve back into the girl she knows. “Are you sure you didn't put something in the drinks?”

“You watched me make them.”

It's true, she did, but she still feels strange, a little too warm, the light taking on a strange shimmery quality. “Cora.”

“Shh.” Cora takes one red lacquered fingernail and trails it down Lydia's cheek. “You shouldn't listen to Erica. It's just alcohol.”

Lydia shivers at the gentle scratch of Cora's nail against her skin. “What are you doing?”

“I needed to see what you knew,” Cora murmurs. “That's all.”

“I don't know anything else,” Lydia protests weakly.

Cora slides her finger down under Lydia's chin. “Are you sure?”

“What do you want me to say?”

There's sudden pressure against Lydia's throat as Cora pushes the tip of her nail into the skin. “I don't want you to say anything. I want you to keep that pretty mouth shut about my family. Got it?”

Lydia nods, wide-eyed, imagining Cora's nail splitting open her skin and spilling blood over the white tiled floor. “Got it.”

“I know it doesn't seem like it.” Cora leans in close. “But I'm looking out for you.”

Lydia manages to straighten her spine and give Cora a stern look. “Then put away the claws, sweetheart.”

Cora smirks and pulls her hand away. “I'm glad we understand each other.”

Cora reaches down and unlocks the door, saunters out of the bathroom while Lydia follows her, heart pounding in her chest like she's narrowly avoided being eaten by a predator. They both stumble back to the living room, teetering in their stilettos, and freeze along with the rest of the group when the heavy metal door of the loft suddenly creaks opens.

Derek waltzes in with [Braeden](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533435708336) on his arm, his head turned to the side to say something that makes her throw her head back and laugh. He's wearing a tuxedo and Braeden’s in an incredible dress - light pink embellished lace, sparkly heels peeking out under the hem. Derek's eyes widen as he takes them in - the noise of the blaring music, the pushed back furniture, the glasses full of alcohol. 

“What are you doing here?” Cora blurts out. “You're not supposed to be here.”

“I live here!” he retorts, his eyebrows scrunching together. “Are you having a _party?_ ”

Cora glances down at her nails, pretending to be cavelier. “It's a small gathering really.”

“Music,” he snaps, and Cora rushes over to unplug her phone.

“Here, happy?” Cora rolls her eyes, the effect somewhat ruined by the way she sways and has to clutch onto Danny’s shoulder to stay upright.

Derek untangles his arm from Braeden and stalks across the living room. Lydia clenches her hands into fists as he walks up to Cora and cups her jaw to peer into her eyes. “Seriously Cora?”

She scowls and pushes him away. “Fuck off.”

“You're all minors!” he shouts. “You're drinking under _my roof_ , Jesus Christ, do I really have to babysit you twenty-four/seven to keep you in line?”

The entire room goes quiet. Cora rolls her shoulders back and gives Derek a strange, cool smile. “Go fuck yourself, Der.”

Cora flips her hair and spins around, stomps over to the stairs and ascends slowly, her heels ringing against the metal steps until she gets up to the top and disappears.

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose and waves his other hand in the air. “Everyone out.”

They all jumped like they've been shocked, Lydia takes Danny's outstretched hand and lets him pull her out of the loft along with everyone else, even Isaac and Malia. They all cram into the service elevator together and ride down in silence, spilling out into the lobby and following Malia when she pushes through the front doors of the building to go outside. Lydia clutches onto Danny's shirt, a little unsteady, as everyone forms a little knot on the sidewalk.

“Wow.” Malia glances up at the dark windows of the loft. “That was…”

She starts to giggle, the way being uncomfortable can sometimes come out as nervous laughter, but then Erica shrieks and all of them laugh, drunk and silly and relieved to have escaped without Derek calling their parents. Erica has tears streaming down her face as she leans against Boyd, gasping for air. “Now what?”

Ethan murmurs something in Danny's ear and he nods, reaching down to disentangle Lydia's hand from his shirt. “We're gonna hit Jungle if you guys want to come?”

“Nah, I want food,” Malia states.

“Ooooh I could _so_ go for pizza right now,” Erica agrees. “Isaac?”

“I'm in.”

Malia reaches out for Lydia. “You coming?”

“Cora was my ride from school so sure, guess I'm stuck with you now,” she answers playfully, and spins in her heels to dodge Malia's teasing slap.

They all hug Ethan and Danny goodbye and split up on the sidewalk. Erica hops onto Boyd's back for a piggyback ride and Isaac holds one arm out to Malia and the other to Lydia. “Shall we?”

Lydia smirks and loops her arm around his elbow. Malia does the same on his other side and they start down the street, following behind Erica and Boyd. There's a pizza parlor Lydia's never been to only a few blocks away; it's tiny, a few booths on one side and a counter with a bored looking teenage boy perched behind it wearing a hideous red and black checked polo. Erica and Boyd handle putting in the order, suddenly all business, and they all commandeer the back booth, Lydia squished in next to Isaac, Malia sitting on his other side, and Boyd and Erica across from them.

“Man. The _look_ on his _face_.” Erica's eyes are wide. “Cora's soooo getting grounded.”

“I love not being the one in trouble.” Malia flops her head down against Isaac's shoulder. 

“Just wait until we get back,” Isaac mutters.

“It's not our fault!” Malia says indignantly.

Lydia snorts. “We didn't exactly stop her.”

“It was her idea!” Malia protests. “We're the innocent peoples - innocent persons - I mean” -

“The innocent party,” Lydia supplies.

“Exactly!” Malia rubs her eyes and gives them all a sheepish look. “I think I'm still drunk.”

“No shit.” Erica stretches out next to Boyd. “Girl got us all completely wasted.”

“I'm not wasted,” Lydia argues. “I'm just _extremely_ inebriated.”

“Uh-huh. _Sure_.” Erica snorts and Lydia can't help but laugh because fuck it, she's just as shit faced as the rest of them, with the exception of Boyd perhaps.

When the pizza comes (one large cheese and one large pepperoni, shining with grease) Lydia watches with wide eyes as everyone digs in, cheese hanging down in long gooey strings as they pull the pieces apart. Lydia sips on a cup of ice water, ignoring the way her empty stomach clenches. Next to her Isaac takes a fourth slice of pizza but instead of adding it to the others on his plate he drops it onto Lydia's.

She turns to him, one questioning eyebrow raised, and Isaac shrugs. When she doesn't look away he sighs and leans down so his lips are next to her ear. “No offense, but you look like you need that,” he whispers, too low for anyone else to hear.

She goes rigid in her seat, slammed into lucidity by his words, but Isaac just nudges her gently with his elbow and takes an enormous bite of pizza. Lydia sighs and takes a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table, spreads it out over her pizza slice and gently presses down to absorb as much grease as possible before bringing the slice to her lips and taking a careful bite. Across from her Erica blatantly rolls her eyes and opens her mouth, probably to tease her, but Boyd clears his throats loudly and Erica drops her gaze down to her plate, lips pressed together.

Lydia works her way slowly through the slice as everyone else eats. She tries to remember that feeling from the first night at the lake house, when she'd eaten with Scott and Stiles and Allison, and how it had been good, she'd _let_ it feel good, but now it feels like she's swallowing something too big for her throat, she has to force down each bite. By the time she's done everyone else has already finished. Lydia wipes off her grease stained hands with a napkin and scoots out of the booth to follow them all back outside.

“We're taking the bus back to school,” Boyd informs them. “You guys good?”

Isaac shrugs, glancing at Malia. “Think it's safe to go back by now?”

“Only one way to find out.” Malia shakes her hair away from her face. “Lydia, how are you getting home?”

Lydia blinks, her eyelids suddenly heavily. How _is_ she getting home?

“Do you need a ride?” Isaac prompts.

“We've gotta go,” Erica announces, staring down at her phone, slim white fingers curled around the black case. “We have six minutes.”

“Bye guys.” Boyd slings his arm around Erica and they turn the corner in the direction of the bus stop, Erica turning around to blow them a kiss before they disappear.

Lydia drags herself across the sidewalk over to a wrought iron bench and sits down, pulling her phone out of her bag. She stares down at the screen; there's really only one person she can call to get her besides her mother. She hits _call_ and listens to it ring while Isaac and Malia sit down on either side of her.

“Lydia?”

She smiles, there's something about the way he says her name that makes her feel like she's melting. “Hi Stiles.”

“Everything okay?”

“Everything is _fabulous._ ”

He laughs into the phone. “Are you drunk right now?”

“I may be _slightly_ inebriated.”

“You okay?”

“Actually I was wondering, if you aren't terribly busy right now could you possibly come pick me up? I need a ride home.”

“Sure, where are you?”

Lydia blinks, looking around. “I'm on a bench.”

“Uh-huh. I was thinking more like an address.”

“Oh.” Lydia tilts her head back at Isaac. “Where am I?”

Isaac snorts. “Greenleaf Drive between Asher and Maple.” 

Lydia repeats the street name into the phone. “So you'll get me?”

“You're not alone right now, right?”

“No, Isaac and Malia are here.”

“Okay, give me fifteen minutes?”

“Okay.”

“Hang tight, see you soon,” he says, and hangs up.

Malia stretches out her legs across Lydia's thighs. “Who was that?”

“Stiles.”

“Stiles?”

“You met him at that party we went to after the Gala.”

“Oh right!” Malia nods vigorously. “ _Cute_.”

“Thank you,” Lydia says primly, and they both burst into hysterical giggles.

“How are you both _this drunk?_ ” Isaac ponders. 

“Three words.” Lydia holds up her fingers to emphasis her point. “Cora. Fucking. Hale.”

Isaac brushes a stray curl off his forehead. “Remind me never to pregame with you.”

Lydia tilts her head back onto Malia's shoulder and stares up at the stars, glittering like Cora's embellished top. “Did you know that hydrogen and carbon were formed by supernovas millions of years ago?”

Malia wrinkles her nose. “And I should care why?”

“Because we're all made out of that too.”

"Huh?”

Lydia reaches up like she could grab a star and swing herself into the sky. “We're made up of stardust.”

Malia tilts her head back and looks up. “ _Whoa_.”

“Yep, totally wasted,” Isaac murmurs, and laughs when Malia kicks him with the toe of her Converse sneaker.

True to his word Stiles shows up exactly fifteen minutes later, pulling the Jeep up to the curb before he hops out and walks around to where they're waiting, wearing red pants that are a little tight around his quads and an unzipped grey hoodie over a faded blue tee shirt.

“Hey!” he calls out, holding up a hand.

"Stiles!” Lydia jumps up from the bench and almost falls right down on the sidewalk, but his hands come under her arms and he holds her up before she can wipe out.

“Whoa, okay, there you go,” he says reassuringly, holding her up against his chest. “Hey, so you all want a ride or just Lydia?”

“Nah, we're good to walk, we're only a couple of blocks away,” Isaac answers.

“See you on Monday!” Malia calls out, latching onto Isaac's arm to pull herself up.

“Bye!” Lydia waves over the top of Stiles’ arm and lets him guide her to the car as Isaac and Malia start to walk back to the loft.

Stiles opens the car door and helps her up onto the seat, Lydia tilts her head back and watches as he closes the door and jogs around to the front of the car to get into the driver's seat. “Were you guys at a party or something?”

“Cora Hale is a _very_ dangerous woman,” Lydia informs him seriously.

“Hale? Like Laura?”

“She's her younger sister.”

“Her uncle’s your choreographer, right?”

Lydia freezes, she's somehow managed to keep them separate so far, her relationship with Stiles untainted by everything that's happened with Peter. She reaches up and tucks her hair behind her ears, gives him a sweet smile to cover up the sudden rush of fear at just the mention of Peter. “Mmhm.”

Stiles taps his fingers against the wheel. “Family company all the way then?”

Lydia leans in a little, purposefully distracting him by getting into his space. “Cora lives with Derek, he's the new artistic director. And her brother. She had the party.”

His fingers tap along to the faint beat of music playing from the car speakers. “How was it?”

"We played Spin the Bottle,” Lydia confesses.

"Did you kiss anyone?” he asks, a wry smile playing on his lips.

“Just Ethan and Malia. And Ethan doesn't even count.”

“Didn't count?”

“Well for one, it's just a game,” Lydia explains. “And we barely even kissed. It was like this.” She leans forwards and brushes her lips against Stiles before pulling away.

He swallows audibly. “What about Malia?”

"Mm, it was more like this.” Lydia presses her lips against his again, firmer this time, until he kisses her back. Lydia relaxes into it, relishing the feeling of his mouth against hers as she sucks on his bottom lip before she slowly pulls away.

Stiles raises an eyebrow at her. “Are you having some kind of sexual identity crises that I need to be aware of?”

She glances down at his crotch in those pants, her tongue swiping across her lower lip as she shakes her head. “Nope. Definitely not.”

"Oh,” he says faintly. “Good to know.”

Lydia smiles and settles her hand on his thigh as he shifts the car into drive and pulls out onto the street. She stares out the window as he drives in the direction of her house, craning her head to watch the stars glitter in the sky. Part of her wishes they could stay like this forever, her hand on his leg, his warm eyes darting to the side to glance at her as he drives, her body melting into her seat when he brushes the knuckles of his right hand against her thigh.

When he gets to her house Stiles parks in the driveway and walks around to open the car door for her. She takes the hand he offers her and gets down, standing precariously in the driveway in her heels, leaning on him for balance.

"Come on.” Stiles threads his fingers through hers. “I'll walk you to the door.”

Lydia squeezes his hand as they slowly make their way to the door, Stiles shortening his stride for her so she doesn't stumble in her heels. Lydia gets her keys out and unlocks the door but then she turns, leaning back against the door so she can really look at him: those eyes that practically glow in the starlight, broad shoulders, lean legs that look just delicious in those pants. She reaches out with her free hand and hooks her fingers through his belt loops to tug him closer.

"Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hey,” she whispers back, and tilts her head up for a kiss.

Stiles meets her halfway, pressing their lips together. Lydia sighs into his mouth, arching back against the door as he uses his tongue to trace her mouth before pushing it between the seam of her lips. Lydia flicks her tongue against his, every molecule in her body going electric. Stiles groans quietly and slides his free hand around to her ass, cupping her through the fabric of her shorts. She can't help but part her legs then, so he can get one thigh between her, pinned to the door by his hands and his mouth and it's so good she can't help the moan that slides out of her mouth when he finally pulls away, breathing heavily.

Lydia blinks up at him, everything twinkling: his eyes, the stars, the streetlights. “Did you know we're made of stardust?” she asks, drunk on Cora's mystery drink and him, the way his hand is still firm on her backside, like he just can't bring himself to let go.

Stiles squints, looking amused. “You mean like carbon and everything? From the supernovas?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I'm a star.”

"You're something alright.” He traces his thumb along her palm.

Maybe she's just drunk but maybe it's more - the way she always feels so safe with him, how patient he's been with her, how he always gives her exactly what she needs even though he owes her nothing.

"What are you doing tomorrow?” she asks softly.

"Tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow day.”

He shrugs. “I'm around. Checking the mailbox obsessively for college acceptance letters and waiting for this very beautiful girl I know to finish practicing.”

She doesn't know why it makes her flush, him calling her beautiful. “What if she didn't have to practice tomorrow?”

His forehead wrinkles. “But you practice every Saturday.”

“Stiles.”

"Yeah?”

Lydia tugs hard on his belt loop. “Go out with me tomorrow.”

She didn't know it was possible for his eyes to get so big. “Like a date?”

She grins cheekily at him. “It's not like I'm proposing marriage or anything.”

His eyes light up. “I don't know,” he says playfully. “You see, I had this plan. Graduate high school, go to college” -

“Stiles!”

He slips his index finger under her chin and leans down press his forehead against his. “Are you being serious?”

Lydia lets her hand wander down to his thigh and squeezes, and Stiles jolts like he's been electrocuted. “Very serious.”

"Okay.” Stiles traces her jawline with the tip of his finger. “How about this. I'll call you in the morning when you're sober and if you actually remember anything about this conversation and still feel the same way, I'll take you out tomorrow.”

"I will,” she assures him.

Stiles squeezes her ass. “Then I guess I'll talk to you in the morning.”

"Good,” she says firmly, and releases her grip on him.

He gives her a helpless smile and kisses her one last time. “I should let you go to bed then.”

She leans back against the door. “Okay.”

"Call you in the morning?”

"You better,” she says sternly.

"I will,” he vows.

Lydia reaches behind herself to open the door. “Goodnight Stiles.”

He looks absolutely thrilled as he starts to walk backwards, somehow managing to not completely trip when he hits the steps. “Goodnight Lydia.”

She leans against the doorway so she can watch him as he gets into the Jeep. Headlights flare as he backs out of her driveway, honking the horn once as he turns onto her street. Lydia stays there until she can't see the taillights of his car anymore and she glances up at the sky, just to see the stars one more time before she goes inside.


	18. on the edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of National Eating Disorder Awareness Week I'm including a link to Neda's site [here](https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/get-involved/nedawareness). If you or someone you love is struggling with an ED I highly recommend checking out their resources. Please take care of your precious body, my darlings, it's the only one you've got <3

[Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533496512536) is just waking up in the morning, the sunlight coming in through the window warm on her face, when her phone rings. She stretches, picking it up with one hand and smiling when she sees Stiles’ face on the screen. Last night comes flooding back to her but there's no morning-after panic, no regret, just warm syrupy affection for him and heat that blooms between her thighs at the memory of his body pinning her against the door.

“Good morning,” she answers in a low voice, going for sultry, sitting up in bed with the phone pressed to her ear.

“Lydia, hey.” His voice sounds a little scratchy and a lot excited, like the very first thing he thought of when he woke up was to call her.

“I just need an hour to shower and get dressed,” she informs him.

“What?”

“You don't _really_ think I would forget about our date,” she teases. “So I hope you have something planned because I'd like my ensemble to be situation appropriate.”

There's a moment of stunned silence and then Stiles says, “Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

“There's the Beacon Hills spring street fair this weekend, I thought maybe we could get brunch at the cafe and check it out after?”

“Alright,” she agrees easily, grateful he chose the cafe, a familiar place where she has the entire menu committed to memory. “Pick me up in an hour?”

“You got it.”

Lydia hangs up and goes to the bathroom to take a shower, peeling off her underwear and stepping under the spray. She tilts her head back to get her hair wet, trying to push down the shiver of nerves threatening to distract her. It's just a date, it's not like she's never been on a date, even if this is the first time in awhile. And it's Stiles, she knows him, he's her friend, he cares about her.

It'll be fine. 

She shampoos and coats her hair in conditioner, trying to remind herself that it's just brunch, it's nothing that they haven't done before. But this feels official in a way that's new and she has no one to blame but herself - she's the one who couldn't wait anymore, she's the one who got starry-eyed and stupid, drunk on his hands and his eyes and the way that he looks at her.

Lydia shaves her legs, rinses her hair and gets out of the shower. She wraps a towel around herself and blow dries her hair into bouncy waves, sprays on a light layer of hairspray, and shakes the strands out until they fall perfectly. She washes her face and moisturizes, applies coconut-vanilla body lotion and goes back to her room. She digs through her closet and takes out a pretty blue [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533496591589) with a lace bodice and poplin skirt. Lydia pulls on a sheer pink bra and matching thong before pulling the dress over her head and carefully flipping her hair around the neckline. She does her makeup at her vanity table, applies dark brown mascara and peach colored lip gloss before searching through her shoe rack for her wedges. Lydia sits on the bed to tie them on, puts her wallet and phone into her Chloé shoulder bag and goes downstairs.

When she glances out the window the driveway is empty, her mother must be running errands. Lydia snags her pink bomber jacket from the hall closet and waits with her nose against the glass, looking for Stiles’ Jeep. It shows up a few minutes later, Lydia lets herself out and locks the front door before walking down the steps as Stiles pulls into the driveway. For a second she's afraid he's going to do something horribly chivalrous like leap out of the car to dash around and help her into the Jeep, but Stiles just smiles brightly and leans across the console to open the passenger door from the inside.

Lydia hauls herself up into the Jeep, careful to keep her knees pressed together as she settles into the passenger seat and smooths out the skirt of her dress. She turns sideways and takes him in, his brown hair is artfully messy without being fussy and he's dressed casual if a little cleaner than usual - a white and navy baseball tee, the long sleeves rolled up to reveal sinewy forearms, and grey slim cut jeans. Lydia blinks, pulling her eyes away hurriedly when she gets a memory flash of last night, blatantly checking him out right here in this car.

“Hey.” Stiles’ fingers are tapping lightly against the wheel as he glances at her, his eyes widening a little. “You look beautiful.”

Lydia stares, momentarily blanking out before she composes herself. “Thank you.”

He gives her that soft smile, the one that makes her feel seen and warm and it's too much like this, in the bright light of day, she has to look away, half-afraid of being blinded. “Ready to go?” he asks.

She buckles up and tosses her hair over her shoulder, pretending not to be disarmed by his compliment. “I'm ready.”

Stiles drives them to the cafe and parallel parks halfway down the block. Lydia waits for him to walk around to meet her on the sidewalk, and Stiles effortlessly links their hands together. They start walking towards the cafe together perfectly in sync, the way their bodies always seem to fall into the same rhythm. When they get there Stiles opens the door for her and Lydia lets go of his hand long enough to go through the doorway before he follows her inside.

It's a Saturday morning, they have to wait by the coffee bar with a small crowd of people for a table. Lydia stands in front of him and startles a little when his hands come to her shoulders but then she remembers that they're on a date, that this is Stiles, and she tilts her head back to smile up at him. _Hey_ , she mouths.

 _Hey_ , he mouths back, and squeezes, just enough for her to feel safe and contained, protected. 

Lydia leans back against his chest, his arms coming around to wrap loosely around her waist and it's - nice. Warm, easy, without being overwhelming. Like how it would feel to be the kind of girl who goes to brunch with her boyfriend, who isn't afraid of hands on her body, or food, or pale eyes that burn blue like the base of a flame.

The kind of girl who smiles and means it, the kind of girl who could learn to let go enough to fall in love with a boy.

They get put in a booth by a window, sliding into opposite sides as the hostess drops folded laminated menus in front of them and takes Stiles’ plea for coffee in stride. Lydia relaxes back in the booth, watching as the hostess places two mugs on their table and pours them both coffee before disappearing back into the crowd. Stiles immediately dumps a few packets of creamer into his coffee and stirs in two sugar packets, brings his mug up to his lips and takes a long sip, exhaling long and low when he swallows. She dribbles in a single packet of half-and-half, tears open a packet of stevia and swirls her spoon around her mug until her coffee turns a milky caramel brown.

“This is weird,” Stiles comments, gesturing loosely between them.

Lydia hums in response, when they go out together they're almost always with Scott and Allison, they've never sat on opposite sides of the table before. It feels a little like going backwards, to be so far apart when she's used to sitting with one of his arms casually slung over her shoulders, knows exactly what that mouth and those hands feel like on her skin.

She curls her hands around her mug. “You can always come sit over here.”

His face lights up. “Yeah?”

“I think I can make the room,” she says lightly, shifting a little to the left.

“Yeah, it's not like you're a ridiculously small person or anything,” he jokes, getting up from his seat and coming around to her side of the booth.

She goes still, mug halfway to her lips, and swallows the _really?_ that almost slips out of her mouth. Stiles leans across the table to slide his coffee over, brings it up to his lips, and Lydia mimics him. She lets her hair fall in front of her face, waiting for him to say something else but Stiles just slings his left arm around her shoulders and kisses the top of her head. 

He's never said anything like that to her before, they've never talked about it - how she never gets food at the movies, how she always orders the healthiest thing on the menu, all of the strange little habits she tries to hide. Lydia ponders whether she should be worried about Scott possibly saying something to Stiles ( _I think Scott knows_ , Allison had whispered, her miserable confession) but just the idea of engaging in more deception is enough to exhaust her.

She wonders if Stiles would even want to be here with her if he really knew what she was like inside, the things her fashionable outfits and perfect makeup and fabulous hair distract from: she's soft inside, damaged, a girl hanging onto her dream by her fingertips. A girl who plays pretend and dress-up to protect herself, a girl who's made of sweat and scar tissue and fear.

When their waitress appears Lydia orders an egg white garden omelette, subbing fruit for the breakfast potatoes, and Stiles orders strawberry Belgian waffles. They come with an absurd amount of whip cream, Lydia busies herself with sprinkling salt over her eggs and cutting off a tiny bite with her fork to distract herself. He drowns his waffles in maple syrup and Lydia doesn't want to watch but she can't look away as he brings a forkful to his mouth. A drop of syrup sticks to his bottom lip and she thinks about pointing it out to him but instead she leans forward, transfixed, her mouth watering.

“You want some?” he offers.

She shakes her head as she leans in and then he seems to get it, Stiles tilts his head to the side and holds still while Lydia licks the syrup off his lip. “Mm.” She makes a show of flicking her tongue. “Sweet.”

“You can have some,” he offers, his eyes stuck on her mouth.

“I'm not supposed to have too much sugar while I'm rehearsing for a show,” she says flippantly, and turns back to her omelette.

When the check comes Lydia goes for her purse but Stiles stops her with a hand on her wrist. “Absolutely not.”

“But I asked you out.”

“And I've been trying to get you to go on a date with me for two months, I'm paying.”

She lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose you may have a point.”

“You can pay next time,” he says generously, throwing down a wad of cash and reaching for her hand.

“Next time?” She slides her hand in his, an electric thrill running up her spine at the idea of doing this again, _having_ this, him, whenever she wants.

“I mean, hopefully,” he says, sounding a bit nervous, pulling on her hand a little to help her out of the booth.

It's one of those moments where everything around her goes still: the noise goes away, the people in the background blur out of existence. The only thing that's real is Stiles, his golden eyes and his sharp smiles and his palm warm against hers. 

“Deal,” she decides, and presses her lips quickly against his to seal it with a kiss.

He blinks rapidly when she pulls away, his fingers tightening their grip on her hand. “Are you still down to walk over to the street fair?”

She nods, smiling, and follows him out of the cafe, stopping on the sidewalk to unzip her jacket now that it's warmed up, and readjusts her grip on his hand. “Shall we?”

“I think it's this way.” Stiles points down the block and Lydia turns to walk with him. “Is this okay?” he asks. “I think it's mostly people selling art and stuff like that.” 

Lydia shrugs. “I'm a civilized person, I like art.”

“I don't actually know what you like other than ballet, oh and math, apparently.” Stiles comments.

Lydia purses her lips thoughtfully as they pass under a woven arch with vines twisting through it that leads to the fair. “Ballet takes up most of my time,” she admits. “Math is… it's easy to like something when you're good at it, I guess. But…”

“You love ballet.”

They slow down in front of the first booth, a series of scenic watercolors. “My mom's worked for the company my whole life,” she explains. “I've been watching ballerinas dance since I was old enough to walk. It's the only thing I've ever wanted to be.”

“When I was little I wanted to be a superhero. Or an astronaut. Or detective.” Stiles grins. “Having a parent in law enforcement will do that to you.”

“Do you know what you want to major in?” she asks, remembering that he'd mentioned something about waiting for college letters last night.

“Criminology probably, or something like that.” They stroll past a booth selling odd abstract copper wire sculptures. “UC-Irvine has a top program.”

Lydia's heart sinks, Irvine is at least eight hours south of Beacon Hills. “Did you apply to other UC schools?”

Stiles nods, squinting at some paintings done in a style reminiscent of Pollock. “UC Davis, mostly because Scott's got his heart set on it. And San Francisco, I could major in politics and minor in criminal justice if I went there. I want I do something where I could help people, you know? Make the word a little safer, hopefully. I applied to a few east coast schools but I don't know how I feel about leaving my dad. The guy wouldn't eat a vegetable without me here to make him.”

Lydia smiles. “Sounds like you decided on superhero.”

He ducks his head like she's embarrassed him. “Um, I wouldn't say that, I just think that stuff is interesting I guess.”

“You could do a lot with a degree like that, right?”

“Yeah, I guess it depends on what I decide to go into.” Stiles stops to look at a table with small printed mosaic wall hangings. “You'll be in San Francisco next year, right? 

“Assuming I get into the company.”

“You'll get in.” Stiles shoots her such an assured look that Lydia's stomach clenches.

“Yo, Stilinski!”

Stiles twists around and makes a face. “Ugh, for some inexplicable reason Greenburg is here. I'm going to to say hi, otherwise he's going to follow us around forever until he gets the hint, is that okay?”

“Sure.” Lydia smiles to show that she really doesn't mind and Stiles rolls his eyes dramatically.

“Be right back.” He squeezes her hand before letting go and walks away, holding up his hand to a couple of guys in maroon sweatshirts standing in front of a booth selling strawberry lemonade.

There's a small florist stand a few booths away, manned by a woman with weathered skin and two thick black braids hanging down her back. Lydia wanders over to it and examines elaborate multicolored floral wreaths, bouquets of lilies and peonies. There's a white bucket on the ground next to a folding table with a little handwritten sign: _sunset roses 1 - $3, 2 - $5_

Lydia reaches down and fingers the petals of one of the roses. They're beautiful, yellow at the base that deepens into a vibrant orange, bleeding out to pink at the edges. She thinks about standing up on stage in a month, flowers thrown at her feet, her old fantasy, but it doesn't hold the same weight that it used to. When she thinks of the showcase now all she can feel is a great crashing wave of panic, icy fear, like she's dancing at the edge of a cliff.

“Do you like those?”

Lydia jumps, her head snapping up. Stiles is back, glancing at the flowers she's standing next to. “Yeah,” she says, because of course she likes them. “They're beautiful.”

Stiles nods and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. Lydia blinks, suddenly self-conscious. “Stiles.”

He opens his wallet and pulls out a ten. “Can I get four please?” he asks the florist.

“Stiles, what are you doing?”

He shoots her a puzzled look as the florist selects four roses and starts to wrap the stems in shiny yellow cellophane. “Buying you flowers.”

“You don't have to,” she says automatically, a little stunned.

“Lydia.” The woman hands him the wrapped flowers and he holds them out to her. “You don't want them?”

“I didn't say that.”

Stiles pushes them into her hands and reaches up to slide his hand behind her neck. “Just let me get you flowers, okay?” he asks softly.

She manages a tight smile, lips pressed together, and nods. She wonders if Stiles knows the significance of giving her orange roses. Probably not. What use would a teenage boy have for knowledge like that?

Orange is a mix of yellow, the color of friendship and platonic love, and red, passionate love. Orange is viewed as the bridge between them, a friendship that blooms into something deeper, romantic. Giving orange roses is a declaration, an intention.

“Lydia?” he prompts.

“Thank you,” she whispers, and has to tilt her head down, pretending to smell the flowers to hide the smile threatening to break across her face.

They walk past a few more booths, stopping in front of miniature wood carvings of trees, when Lydia's phone rings inside her bag. She transfers the flowers to the crook of her elbow as she pulls out her phone, Allison's face flashing on the screen. “It's Allison, do you mind if I” -

“Yeah, go ahead.” Stiles squints at the next booth. “I'm gonna check out the sand mandalas.”

“Okay.”

Lydia watches him walk away as she answers her phone. “Hey Allison.”

“Hi!” Allison says brightly. “Are you done practicing? Scott and I are going to get frozen yogurt, we thought maybe you and Stiles wanted to come with us?”

“Oh. Actually I'm with Stiles right now.”

“Really? Wait, are you guys on a date?”

“Mmhm.”

Allison squeals. “Like an official date?”

“I'm standing here holding roses he bought me so yes, I think I'm officially on a date.”

“Oh my god!” Allison squeals. “Wait, if you don't want to meet up with us I totally understand” -

“No, it's fine,” Lydia says. “We’re at the street fair, we can meet you there in ten?”

“Great! See you there,” Allison says, and hangs up.

Lydia returns her phone to her bag and walks over to the booth where Stiles went. He's talking to a girl wearing a sleeveless pink [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533496663857), a perfectly centered blond ponytail hanging down between her shoulder blades.

“Hey Lydia!” Stiles holds a hand up at her, smiling a little manically. “This is Heather.”

“Hi!” Heather gives Lydia a bright smile and holds out her hand.

Lydia gives Heather an evaluating glance: big blue eyes, pouty lips, long tan legs.

_Never have I ever had sex with a girl._

Lydia shakes her hand numbly, imagining this girl's long legs around Stiles’ waist, her sparkly pink painted fingernails sliding into his hair. Heather pulls her hand back and gives Stiles a warm smile, reaching out to brush his forearm. Lydia stares, watching her hand against his bare skin like it's the easiest thing in the world, to touch him like that.

“I should go, it was nice running into you,” Heather says.

“Yeah, you too.” Stiles doesn't touch her back but he gives her a soft smile and gently pulls his arm out of her grasp.

Lydia watches Heather skip away, her ponytail swinging in rhythm to her hips. “Who was that?”

“That was Heather.”

“And Heather would be?”

Stiles scratches the back of his neck. “Uh, Heather’s kind of my ex-girlfriend.”

“Kind of?” she asks sharply.

Stiles sighs, looking a little sheepish. “We grew up together, our moms were friends. We dated second half of sophomore year into the first part of junior year.”

“Why'd you break up?”

“Well, we, uh, we'd been friends for so long that we felt like we owed it to each other to see if there could be something more between us, you know? And we care about each other a lot, but um, I guess in the end there wasn't really, we didn't really have any…”

“Passion?” Lydia suggests quietly.

“Yeah,” he says softly.

She clutches the stems of the roses. “Did you sleep with her?”

Stiles makes a choking sound. “Uh, yeah, we, uh, in the interest of full disclosure we lost our virginities to each other, so uh… yeah.”

Lydia reaches down with her free hand to curl her fingers around his. “Come on, Scott and Allison want to meet us for frozen yogurt.”

“Uh, okay.” Stiles starts to walk with her, heading towards the exit of the street fair. “Lydia” -

“I’m fine Stiles.” It's not like she didn't know he had a history but it's another thing to see it right in front of her in flesh and blood, knows exactly what face to imagine now when she thinks about him with other girls.

“Hey, Lydia.” Stiles tugs on her hand a little. “Heather and I were over a long time ago.”

“Okay.”

“I just don't want you to feel like” -

“I said I'm fine, Stiles.”

“Okay. Good, I mean, you don't have a reason not to be.”

“I hope not,” she says, wincing internally when her words come out stiff.

“You see, there's this girl I'm really into.” Stiles’ thumb strokes against the back of her hand. 

Lydia glances sideways at him as they walk past a soft pretzel stand. “Really?”

“Yup. She's really incredible - beautiful, talented, almost disturbingly smart.”

“You don't say,” she says lightly, hating how easy his words melt down her resolve, how little it takes for her to soften.

“Oh yeah. She got into MIT as a _junior_. And she's an incredible ballet dancer. She hasn't really let me see her dance yet but she has this big show coming up that I'm hoping she'll invite me to.”

Lydia follows him past the last booth and hits the crosswalk button so they can cross the street towards the frozen yogurt shop. “You want to come to the showcase?”

“Lydia.” He tugs on her hand and she turns to face him, biting her lip at the expression on his face, like he's trying to convey something important. “I want to be there for the girl I like on the most important night of her life.”

“Okay,” she murmurs, feeling strangely touched. “I'll have my mom get you a ticket then.”

The light changes and they cross the street, Stiles’ hand holding hers firmly. Scott and [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533496828704) are waiting for them outside the frozen yogurt shop. When Lydia approaches them Allison beams and steps away from Scott, holding her hand out so she can examine the roses.

“These are pretty,” Allison comments.

“Thanks,” Lydia says, glancing at Stiles when he lets go of her hand to give Scott a hug/shoulder slap/fist bump. “Are we going in?”

“Wait,” Allison whispers, giving her a mischievous smile. “How's everything going?”

“It's fine,” Lydia hisses, embarrassed. “Can you please be cool about this?”

Allison beams, pulling on the glass door of the shop. “Oh, come on. Smile, Lydia.”

*

“Come on!” Peter shouts as [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533497052210) leaps around the practice studio. “Where's the passion?”

She almost couldn't believe it when she'd opened her school email this morning and seen it on the screen - a scheduled showcase rehearse with Peter for Monday night. An _individual_ rehearsal.

Lydia stops at the end of her fouette turn sequence. They're going over her solo in the middle of the piece, after they do the section where Aiden catches her, seduces her, past the series of drops that make her ribs burn and her head spin. She holds her hand out in front of her face and stares at it until the walls stop spinning. Peter's leaning up against the mirror, arms crossed against his chest, looking unimpressed. She stays where she is, sucking in mouthfuls of air as her heart rate drops back down to normal.

“You're too stiff in the face,” he chastises. “Your dancing is fine but I'm not _getting_ anything from you. I need to feel you, if I can't feel the passion then you haven't done your job.”

She swallows, hands resting on her hips. “I'm just tired.”

“I don't care if you're tired,” he snaps. “Come here.”

She walks slowly towards him, biting the inside of her cheek to distract herself from the tightening in her chest. Peter looms over her and for a long minute he just stares at her, but then he sighs and reaches out to cup her chin. She forces herself not to flinch, to be passive, allowing him to tilt her head up to look him in the eye.

“Let’s get one thing clear.” His voice is soft, almost hypnotic. “In this room you are my dancer, you bend to my will. I don't care if you're tired. What you feel, what you think, it means nothing to me. You want to be a prima? You want to dance on a stage, night after night? This is what it takes! You cannot be lazy, you must sacrifice, you must give everything required of you and when you have nothing left you do not stop until I say you can stop. You are a dancer, which means you are a body and you shall use your body as I see fit. It's my job to push you beyond what you think you're capable of, you must understand that.”

Lydia nods, silent, ashamed of herself, her softness, her shortcomings, her inability to give him what he needs as the choreographer. 

_You are a body_.

His fingers stoke against her jaw. “You really are beautiful,” he murmurs. “You could be a star one day. If you want it badly enough.”

She doesn't say anything, frozen in place, chills breaking over her skin as his hand slides down to cup over her throat. She stares helplessly up at his face, silently begging for mercy.

“What is it going to take for you to give me what I need?” he asks. “The potential is there. The technique, the artistry. Your face.” He leans down a little so there's nothing she can see but sharp teeth and eyes that practically glow. “But that's not enough. Ask anyone, there's more to being a prima then a pretty face and good feet. There needs to be passion. Determination. You need to be magnetic. You need to make me fall in love with you. Anything less is unacceptable.”

Lydia gasps quietly as Peter releases his grip on her throat and strokes his hand over the top of her head. “I can be better,” she vows desperately.

“Yes,” he agrees softly. “You can be. You will be.”

She nods against his hand, a mindless _pleasepleaseplease_ running through her head, and somehow, like a miracle, he pats her shoulder and step back. “I think that's enough for tonight.”

She exhales shakily, and drops into a reverence because he's her choreographer, she has to respect him, even when he's holding her by the throat. “Thank you,” she whispers, head dropped.

“I expect to see progress next time,” he says, pocketing his phone. “I don't like to be disappointed, Lydia.” He gives her an icy smile. “Until Wednesday.”

She watches him walk across the studio and leave, the door swinging behind him. Lydia's eyes fill up with tears as she stumbles back and quickly walks over to her dance bag, sits down and takes off her pointe shoes, exchanging them for her Nikes. She turns the light out when she leaves the studio, hurries down the empty hall and jogs up the stairs to the first floor. She doesn't want anyone to see her like this, Lydia turns left and pushes the back door open, goes outside and leans against the wall of the building carefully so she doesn't scratch her back, the skin exposed by her purple leotard.

She inhales balmy night air, tears sliding out of the corners of her eyes as she exhales. Lydia curls her fingers into her palms, an odd metallic taste on her tongue. She counts to ten, eyes shut, and when that doesn't calm her down she reaches into her bag and pulls out her phone. She hesitates when she gets to his contact number but Stiles had said _you can always call me_ so Lydia wipes her face with a shaking hand as she dials his number and brings the phone to her ear, listening to it ring until the line clicks on.

“Hey Lydia! How's it going?”

She opens her mouth to say hi back but all that comes out of her mouth is a harsh sob. She slaps her hand over her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Lydia, are you okay?”

“I'm fine!” she squeaks, shaking as she tries to cry without making a sound so he won't know.

“Are you crying?”

“No,” she sniffs.

“What's wrong?” His voice goes sharp. “Where are you?”

“I'm okay,” she breathes. “I'm at school, outside. By the parking lot.”

“Did something happen?”

She presses her lips together and breathes through her nose a few times. “No. I'm - I had rehearsal tonight and I'm just really tired.”

“Are you sure? You sound upset.”

Her breath catches in her chest. “It's just - hard sometimes.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really. I'm sorry, I just - it's stupid, I guess I just wanted to hear your voice for a minute.”

“That's not stupid,” he says gently. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“Yeah.” She inhales hard and wipes under her eyes. “I'm okay. I should let you go, I still have to shower and everything, I'm standing out here in my leotard.”

“Okay.” She can hear Stiles breathing through the phone. “If you change your mind about talking about it you know I'm here, right?”

Her eyes well up all over again. “Yeah, I know.”

“Okay. Text me later?”

“Okay.”

“Lydia?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm here, okay? You can always call me.”

“Thanks,” she sighs. “I'm sorry, it was just a hard rehearsal, I'm okay.”

“I'm sorry,” he says sympathetically, all warm and understanding.

“Thank you.” She inhales hard and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “I'll text you later, okay?”

“Okay. I hope you feel better.”

“Thanks.” Lydia stares up at the sky, wondering what she did to deserve this, someone who cares about how she feels more than how she dances. “Goodnight Stiles.”

“Night Lydia.”

When she hangs up her mouth still tastes strange. Lydia brings her fingers up to her lips and sucks; when she pulls them away they're coated in blood. She stares at her fingertips, shivering, she must have cut open her cheek when she bit it.

Lydia sighs to herself, wipes the blood off on her tights and turns around to go inside.

*

“And five, six, seven, eight,” Marin counts, tapping her foot against the floor. They're in rehearsal for the girls’ group showcase piece, dancing Marin’s choreography.

[Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533497153687) and [Cora](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533497222662) peel off from the back of the line they're all standing in and do piqué turns down the floor towards the front. They both have a small solo here, mirroring each other: two balancés, another piqué turn, an assemblé, their legs going up in the air and brushing together before they land on two feet and bourré away to stage right and stage left respectively, their arms swirling from side to side. 

[Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533497290447) and [Malia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533497353470) are next, they chassé up the floor, following the same path as Allison and Cora, and leap up for a grand jeté, pas de bourré away from each other and do a series of chaîné turns until they hit the walls. [Kira](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533497424718) and [Erica](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533497489963) are the only girls left, they do balancés en tournant, little waltz-like half turns until they come to the front. They both rise up en pointe for arabesques, holding their back legs up until the music crescendos and the other girls run back to the middle to join them. They cross between each other, moving in a turn combination that has a complicated floor pattern, Lydia comes down from a piqué turn too close to Cora and has to hop back so she doesn't whack her with her arms as they all go into a petit allegro, jumping up and down in perfect sync.

“Lightly, lightly,” Marin chastises. “No elephant feet please.”

Lydia watches herself in the mirror and forces herself to relax her face, careful to land as lightly as possible on the balls of her feet as she rolls down to her heel before jumping back up, ignoring the sharp slice of pain in her ribs as she breathes, smiling placidly through the rest of the combination because that's her job, to move her body, regardless of what she feels, because she wants to be a prima and she's going to be a star if she can just push herself enough, sacrifice enough, work through the exhaustion and the pain and the desire to lie down on the floor and take a nap.

“Better,” Marin says in her direction when the combination ends and it's almost worth it, the way Marin's praise makes Lydia feel like she's doing something right, like she isn't failing. “Once more girls, from the top.”

Lydia wipes the sweat off her forehead with the heel of her hand and walks back to her starting position.

*

“Where's the passion?” Peter yells out from across the studio. “I'm getting bored here!”

Aiden drops [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533497620321) backwards, her left leg around his waist, and she hangs upside down, the blood rushing to her head, until Aiden hauls her back up. She collapses into him while staying on pointe; Aiden cups the back of her head and lets her breathe for a second before he lets go of her leg and she draws it around in a rond de jambe en l’air to bring her leg behind herself for an arabesque. Aiden slides his hands under her for a small lift and turns her, Lydia shifts in his arms and wraps her legs around him before dropping back upside down. She breathes through her nose and pushes through that familiar fear, gravity tugging at her bones, threatening to crack her head open if she falls. Aiden throws her up and Lydia does a little slide down his chest, flicking her eyes up to him as she lands on her toes and steps away.

She breaks into the solo she and Peter worked on the other night. She leaps from side to side, whirls like a dervish, centers herself before going into fouettes, spinning with one leg extended before bringing it in as she turns. She watches herself in the mirror, her face too tight, tense, lips pressed together as she spins and spins.

“The face! You're forgetting your face!” Peter shouts. “Come on, make me feel something already! What are you waiting for?”

Lydia gasps for breath as she comes out of her last turn and drops to the side so Aiden can slide in and catch her with his palm under the back of her neck. He winks at her, trying to be reassuring, as he bends his knees and slides his left arm under her back to pick her up. Aiden spins in circles with her held to his chest, her legs going lower and lower until her feet finally hit the floor, their bodies flush up against each other. Aiden lunges to the side, taking Lydia with him, their hips pressed together, and lays her back against his thigh. Lydia stretches out, arching her back, her legs straight out and extended, toes barely brushing the floor.

“Lydia darling, would it kill you to look excited?” Peter calls out. “This is a seduction sweetheart, we aren't going for frigid here. What are you, a virgin? Make me want you, make everyone want you! Do something!”

Lydia flinches when Aiden's hands grip her wrists to pull her up as he takes a step towards Peter, blocking Lydia with his body. “What did you just say to her?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “She heard what I said.”

“Aiden,” Lydia murmurs.

“You can't talk to her that way,” Aiden says hotly.

“And what exactly did I say that's troubling your delicate sensibilities?” Peter looks amused, like this is just a game to him.

What was it Malia had said about Peter? 

_We're all just things to him._

“You know what you said.” Aiden sneers, like he's disgusted.

“Aiden come, on,” Lydia pleads softly. “Just let it go.”

Peter merely raises an eyebrow. “If you have a problem with the way I run my rehearsal you're welcome to leave.”

“Great,” Aiden says sardonically, stomping across the studio to pick up his gym bag. “Let's go, Lydia.”

She stands there where he left her in the middle of the studio, her cheeks hot with humiliation. Peter's watching her closely, his expression blank, head tilted a little curiously like he's waiting to see how she handles this. When she doesn't move Aiden huffs out a breath and picks up her bag too, walks back quickly to her and grasps her hand tightly. “We're leaving,” he announces firmly, and tugs on her hand to hustle her out of the studio.

“Wait, Aiden, my shoes!” she whisper-cries, stumbling into the hallway in her pointe shoes.

“Shit!” he exclaims, stopping and pressing her back against the wall. “Here, here, sorry, shit.”

He puts one of her feet on his thigh at a time and Lydia swats his hands away to untie her ribbons and yank her shoes off. “Oh my god,” she moans, dropping her head back against the wall. “I can't believe we did that, we just walked out of a showcase rehearsal, we're in so much trouble.”

“ _We’re_ in trouble?” Aiden gets her Nikes out of her bag for her and helps her jam her feet into them. “Come on, we shouldn't talk here.”

Lydia grips his hand and jogs down the hallway with him. They take the stairs up to the first floor and push out the backdoor to go outside. Aiden drops the bags on the concrete and begins to pace back and forth, lips twisted up in a snarl. “I can't _believe_ him! ‘What are you, a virgin?’ Christ, what a dick! He can't talk to you like that!”

“He's our choreographer, he can say whatever he wants,” she says dully.

“And what's his fucking problem, anyway?” he continues, like he didn't even hear her. “You're so talented, he's _lucky_ to be working with you, you do everything he tells you to do, and this is how he treats you? No wonder Derek made him resign” -

“What?” Lydia blinks at him. “ _Derek's_ the one that made him resign? How do you know that?”

Aiden shrugs. “It's a small school, secrets don't stay secrets here forever, you know that. Cora knew, I'd bet you money she fucking knows everything about him. Anyway, she told Ethan.”

Lydia sighs, remembering Cora pretending to shoot her with a finger gun, warning her to keep her mouth shut. Does Cora know what he did to Lydia? 

_Uncle Peter has a temper_.

Cora must know, or at least have an idea. Laura was her sister, after all. Laura Hale, Peter's prima ballerina, the star of the Hale Ballet Company, the girl who traded in accolades and adoration, rising stardom, for a bullet to the head.

“You can't let him get to you like that,” she says eventually.

Aiden stops pacing suddenly, fixing his eyes on her. “Has this happened before?”

“What?”

“Has he said stuff like this before to you?”

_I could do anything to you._

Lydia squints up at the overcast afternoon sky. “I don't know.”

“You don't _know?_ Jesus Lydia, come on.”

“Well what are we supposed to do about it? We're dancers, we're disposable to him. Aiden”-

“I don't care,” he mutters, sounding mutinous. “That's so fucked up, he can't say shit like that to you.”

“Well what do you want to do? Go to Derek? Tell him we stomped out of rehearsal because Peter was _mean_ to me? He’ll just think we're being difficult, he could kick us out of the showcase!”

“No.” Aiden shakes his head. “No way, we're too good. I can talk to Derek, make him understand” -

“He's Peter's nephew! You really think he’ll understand?”

“I can try!”

“Aiden, I'm not letting you risk that! It's fine, I can handle it.”

“You shouldn't have to!”

“Don't you get it? We're not special, we don't matter to them! Do you really think they care about our feelings? If we won't work with him Derek will just replace us, you know he will. It's not worth it, okay?”

Aiden shakes his head. “This is so fucked up.”

“I know.” Lydia reaches out and brushes his wrist. “I know you're just trying to protect me but you can't do that every time he says something out of line.”

“Dammit.” Aiden checks the time on his phone and grimaces. “I have to help Finstock run a level two boys class soon. At least we were almost done anyway.”

“Go, I’m fine.”

He groans and shoulders his gym bag. “I'm not done talking about this with you.”

“Okay,” she says, trying to placate him. “Look, let’s just let him cool off, and if something else happens - if we go to Derek that's a decision we make together, okay?”

“Whatever” -

“Aiden,” she hisses.

“Fine! I won't say anything to him, Christ. Shit, I have to go.” He leans in and kisses her cheek. “I'll see you later?”

“Yeah.” 

Aiden lopes away, pushing the back door open to go inside. Lydia sighs and leans back against the wall. She feels restless, on edge, she doesn't know what to with herself. The idea of going back inside suddenly seems stifling, claustrophobic, and anyway Peter is still in there, she can't handle the idea of running into him like this.

Lydia pulls her phone out of her bag and spins it in her hands. Stiles must be out of school by now, it's past four, if he doesn't have lacrosse practice he might be free. She pulls up his number and dials before she can talk herself out of it. It feels like the beginning of a bad habit, calling him every time she needs something, or when something goes wrong, but he keeps telling her it's okay and he keeps telling her he cares about her and she needs that right now, something that feels good, real, someone who looks at her as more than just a body.

“Hey Lydia, what's up?”

“Do you have lacrosse practice today?”

“Nope, no practice, why?”

“I was wondering if you could come pick me up?”

“Are you at school?”

“Yeah, I got finished with rehearsal a little early.”

“Okay! Um, I'm just leaving the library at school, I can be there in like fifteen, twenty minutes?”

“Okay.”

“Cool, pick you up in front?”

“I'll be there.”

“Okay! See you soon!”

Stiles hangs up and Lydia stares down at her phone, the blinking _call ended_ that flashes on the screen. She sighs loudly to herself and digs her cardigan out of her bag, yanks it on but leaves it unbuttoned, and walks around the side of the building to the front entrance of the school. She swings up onto the low stone wall and sits with her legs crossed, staring out at the empty street, the leaves on the trees gleaming gold as the sun finally peeks out from the clouds. Lydia tilts her head up, eyes shut, and counts to ten each time she takes a breath until she hears the rumble of the Jeep’s engine as Stiles pulls his car up to the curb.

Lydia hops off the wall and shoulders her bag, walks down the sidewalk and yanks the door of the Jeep open to get into the passenger seat, putting her dance bag down on the floor under her feet. “Hey,” she says, suddenly a little self-conscious. “Thanks for getting me.”

“Sure.” Stiles smiles and reaches over to brush her cheek with his thumb. “How was rehearsal?”

“It was fine.” All casual, stretching out in her seat, like nothing happened. 

She can't bear to tell him anyway, pushing down the humiliation at what Peter said to her earlier. She doesn't want Stiles to ever see her like that, small and weak, something shameful.

“Just fine?” he asks curiously, like he really wants to know, like he cares.

“I really don't feel like talking about rehearsal.” Lydia leans her head back against the headrest. “I need a distraction.”

Stiles slides this thumb under her jaw before pulling his hand away. “What kind of distraction?”

“Want to drive somewhere and make out?”

Stiles laughs. “Yeah, sure.”

“I wasn't joking.”

The way his eyes go wide is almost ridiculously adorable. “Um - seriously?” 

Lydia reaches across the console with her left hand and settles it high on his thigh. “Seriously.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says, voice going low. “Sure, yeah. We - that is definitely something we could do.”

“Good.” Lydia keeps her hand on his leg. “Let's go then.”

Stiles drives down the shady road until it ends and he turns right onto the main street, goes down the block and turns right again. Lydia gets a feeling she knows where he's headed but she doesn't know for sure until he turns down the access road that leads to the preserve. Stiles drives until the road narrows down to dirt and the busy street they came from fades out of view. He parks under a large tree and turns the engine to idle so there's still music playing softly from the speakers, takes his seatbelt off and turns to her.

“Hey,” he says, soft and low.

Lydia raises an eyebrow and tilts her head towards the backseat. “Hey.”

“Right.” Stiles smiles, a little awkward but sweet too, and climbs in between the seats to the back, sitting in the middle and stretching out his legs. 

Lydia follows, toeing off her Nikes before crawling to him, taking his outstretched hands as she settles in his lap, her knees pressing up against his hips. “Hey,” she murmurs again, letting her cardigan slide a little off one shoulder.

“Hey.” Stiles’ voice is a little shaky, like he's nervous, even though this is certainly not the first time that they've done this right here in this car, although they're usually in her mother's driveway, kissing until they hit her curfew.

Lydia shifts a little, settling her weight. Stiles goes very still under her, just watching, hands gripping the edge of the seat. She loves this position, the power she feels like this, with him held under her, his eyes jumping from her lips to her chest to her thighs splayed open, thin pink tights scratching against the fabric of his jeans. Lydia moves slow, because she can, there's no rush, no one out here to catch them, just birdsong layering over the radio, trees everywhere and Stiles, staring up at her like she's a goddess, an angel, something beautiful and awe-inspiring, more than a mere human girl. 

_What are you, a virgin?_

Lydia shakes her head like she can physically clear her thoughts that way. She takes a deep breath and reminds herself that she's done this before, she's not some uptight frigid prude like Peter was suggesting. All she has to do is make Stiles want her, it's easy. She knows how to make men want her. 

She leans down slowly, all control, and gently brushes her lips against his. Stiles makes a little sound and parts his mouth, eagerly kissing her back. It never fails to get to her, the way he kisses, warm and deep, like he's trying to pour all his feelings into her mouth so she can taste how much he wants her, desires her. She slides her hands into his hair and tugs lightly; Stiles groans and bucks up into her a little, making her gasp into his mouth at the sudden pressure between her legs. His hands are still on the seat though and that just won't do, Lydia reaches down and takes them, brings his hands up to her shoulders.

“Take it off,” she whispers, and is rewarded with Stiles catching her bottom lip in between his teeth as he pulls her cardigan down.

Lydia shrugs it off, letting the fabric fall somewhere under the passenger seat, and moves his hands back to her bare shoulders. It's so much better like this, when she can feel the heat of his hands right on her skin, spreading through her whole body until she's melting over him to kiss again. Stiles plays with the straps of her leotard for awhile until Lydia gets impatient and sits up in his lap, reaching up to pull the straps down over her shoulders.

Stiles gapes at her, lips shiny with spit. “Yeah?” he asks hoarsely.

She nods, wiggling in his lap a little, like a dare, before stilling under his touch as he curls his fingers around the straps. Stiles takes a deep breath and carefully drags the neckline of her leotard down as she pulls her arms free, leaving her naked from the waist up. He lets out a loud groan and then he dives in, making Lydia cry out as he closes his mouth around one breast and spreads his hand over the other.

“Okay?” he pants into her skin, and when Lydia nods he sucks, making her gasp and squirm.

She lets her head fall back and closes her eyes, trying to stay here, in the moment, his hands and his mouth devouring her chest. Teeth scrape gently over her skin and Lydia moans, her stomach contracting, but it doesn't hurt, it feels nothing like a threat, not like this, with Stiles trapped under her and his fingers stroking gently, gently over her other breast, until Lydia starts to shiver, overwhelmed with sensation.

Heat throbs between her legs, a slow insistent pulse, and Lydia lets it move her, starts to rock her hips because she's not a virgin, she knows what she's doing, and Stiles wants her, of course he wants her, she's Lydia Martin and she's going to be a star, who wouldn't want a little taste of her stardust? Maybe she can't dance perfectly but this, here, proves that she has it inside of her - fire, desire, passion. She tries to sink into the feeling, familiarize herself with it so she can tap into this feeling at her next rehearsal - the ache in her belly and the heat of his body against hers, the way it feels to have someone's mouth map out her skin, all tongue and teeth and slick spit making her skin tighten like her body is too big for it.

Stiles pushes up into her a little, probably subconsciously, his large hands wrapped around her thighs, and Lydia rolls her hips. She's practically naked like this, leotard pooled below her waist and thin pink tights like a second skin around her legs. She arches her body against him, desperate for more, crying out when he finds a rhythm for her, his hands coming to her hips, encouraging their rocking movement, his mouth moving up over her collarbone to lick her throat.

Lydia curls over him, pressing her forehead to his shoulder as he kisses his way up to her ear. They've made out plenty over the past month but it's never gotten farther than that first night in his living room, rolling around on the floor. They're approaching new territory now and maybe they should stop, but all she can think of Peter's disparaging remarks, how she's supposed to make him fall in love with her, make everyone fall in love with her, flirt and seduce like it's the only thing she's good for but it's okay, it's fine, she can do it, see, she's doing it right now, she's not a failure, she's not weak, she's good she's hot she's sexy she's everything she's supposed to be and she just has to prove it, just has to move her hips and relax, let her body take over, because she knows how to do this, she's supposed to be able to to do this -

“Lydia, hey, hey, look at me.”

“What?” She lifts her head, blinking tear filled eyes at him. Lydia reaches up in shock, touching her bottom eyelashes and recoiling when her fingers come away wet.

“Lydia, you're shaking.” His hands travel up her body but it's not sexual this time, he sweeps them up and down her back like that time they huddled in front of the diner, Stiles holding her close to keep her warm.

“I'm sorry,” she whispers, her cheeks flushing. “I'm fine, I'm sorry”-

“Hey, it's okay, let's just slow down for a second,” he suggests, and she hates this, how worried he suddenly looks. “What happened, where'd you go?”

She almost says, locked in a basement with a sociopath who doesn't think I'm sexy enough, and then she thinks about how that would sound and she has to press her hand against her mouth to swallow back a wave of hysterical laughter. 

“Lydia?” Stiles reaches for her leotard and slowly rolls it back up over her chest for her. “What's wrong?”

She turns her head because she doesn't think she can look at him like this. “Nothing. I'm fine, really.”

“Hey.” His hand slides around the back of her neck and she twitches. “Lydia, look at me.”

It's almost embarrassing how difficult it is for her, to look him in the eyes like this, but she forces herself to, lips pressed together. “I'm okay,” she whispers, trying to sound reassuring. 

Stiles doesn't look convinced. “Is this about what's happening in your rehearsals?”

For one moment of insanity she thinks, _he knows_ , and her stomach clenches. “What?”

“I don't know, you sounded upset the other night and you seem really distracted and I'm like, trying so hard right now not to take it personally that you totally zoned out in the middle of making out” -

“I didn't.”

He raises a disbelieving eyebrow at her and Lydia shrinks, curling into herself in a pool of humiliation. She's starting to wish she hadn't called him at all, hadn't dragged him into her mess. What would he think of her, if he knew the kinds of things Peter said to her, if he knew how badly she was failing at the one thing she's supposed to be good at? Would Stiles even want her anymore, if she wasn't a dancer, wasn't a lean and delicate ballerina, an aspiring star?

Who would she even be, then? 

_You're a body._

What's the point of having a body if she can't figure out how to use it the way she needs to for the showcase?

Stiles sighs and tilts his head back. “Look, I know I'm not a dancer and I don't know what it's like to be you but I'm kind of getting the impression that there's something going on that you aren't telling me about.”

Lydia twists down and reaches for her cardigan, feeling too exposed for this conversation. “I'm not keeping some big secret from you, there really isn't anything to talk about. My choreographer can be really difficult and hard to please, which most choreographers are like. It's just the way thing are and it's hard, sometimes. But I'm fine, I can handle it. Okay?”

Stiles sighs. “Okay.” He sits up a little, Lydia still in his lap. “You haven't had dinner yet, right?”

She shakes her head and bends down to hide, tucking her head under his chin and sliding her palm over his chest so she can feel the beat of his heart through his flannel. 

“Come on,” he says, so gently, like he isn't even mad that she had some kind of freak out and killed their hookup session before it could even really get off the ground. “I'll buy you dinner.”

He drives them to some pub Lydia's never been to before, leads her to a booth in the back and waits for her to slide in before getting in next to her and slinging one arm around her shoulders. Lydia tilts her head up and when Stiles smiles down at her it makes her want to cry. She doesn't deserve this, all this patience, all this gentle treatment, but it feels so good, she can't stop herself from wanting it, taking it, always greedy for more.

When their waitress comes Stiles orders a burger and curly fries and Lydia gets tomato soup. When the waitress points out that it comes with half a grilled cheese sandwich Lydia just sighs and nods in acquiescence, too tired to explain that she can't eat the sandwich. When their food comes Lydia carefully pushes the grilled cheese to the edge of her plate and drapes her napkin over it so she can't be tempted. Next to her Stiles dunks a handful of curly fries in ketchup and Lydia has to force herself to look away, taking careful spoonfuls of soup so she doesn't spill. She's still on edge though, she can't even make it through the bowl before her stomach revolts, cramping up like it's angry at her for feeding it liquid tomatoes instead of a real meal.

 _You don't need it_ , she silently tells herself. She has to be better, dance better, push herself, all those calories will only slow her down. She needs to be pure, nothing but muscle and bone and beauty. She'll show Peter, her teachers, everyone who's ever doubted her, she'll work twice as hard, dance better, perform better, the showcase is a month away and she can do it, she just has to focus.

Lydia thinks about Peter watching her like he's waiting for her to fail, Peter calling her darling, Peter holding her in the air, dropping her in the dark, Peter promising her stardom, the memories flashing through her mind uncontrollably, like she's stuck in some kind of trauma loop. She pushes her bowl away, wincing when it makes a loud scraping sound against the table. 

Next to her Stiles frowns and pokes at her plate. “You didn't eat your sandwich.”

“I'm not that hungry,” she lies.

“But you had rehearsal, you have to be hungry,” he argues. 

“Well I'm not,” she says tightly. “I'm in training, I have to be careful with my diet anyway.”

Stiles wipes his fingers off on a napkin. “You're not like - taking this whole training thing for the showcase _too_ seriously, right?”

Lydia blinks innocently at him. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Right,” he mutters. “Of course you don't.”

It's enough to make Lydia flinch and turn away, pretending to be occupied with buttoning up her cardigan while Stiles finishes his burger in silence. He pays the check and Lydia holds his hand when he offers it to follow him back outside where the Jeep is parked by the curb. He helps her into it wordlessly and Lydia feels a strange wave of desperation, like if she doesn't do something now she's going to permanently fuck things up between them. She catches him by the collar of his flannel before he can shut her door and reels him in to kiss, feeling a wave of relief when he kisses her back, one of his hands cupping over her cheek.

Stiles is smiling when he pulls away and Lydia sits back in her seat, satisfied, watching as he slams her door shut and jogs around to get into the driver's side. He drives back to HSB with the radio turned up, their hands linked over the gear shift. Lydia tries to ignore the painful tug in her chest when he turns down the private tree-lined road that leads to school. Stiles pulls the car around to the front of the building and shifts into park, leans back in his seat and gives her a wistful smile while Lydia unbuckles and reaches down for her dance bag.

She leans across the console to kiss him goodbye, lingering to brush her lips over his nose, his eyelashes, the curve of his jaw, trying to show him how she feels even though she doesn't have the words. Stiles sighs, catching her by the wrist as she pulls away to trace patterns over her skin with his fingertips.

“Sometimes,” he says, looking past her and out the window, at the school. “I really don't like taking you back here.”

Lydia thinks about how after he leaves she'll go back down to the basement and work out in the gym for awhile, burn off the soup, smile and flirt in the mirror until she has her face worked out for her next rehearsal. And she pretends it doesn't make her ache, to do that, walk away from him, throw herself into something she loves even though it hurts her, too.

“Hey,” she murmurs, putting on a brave smile for him. “I'll be okay.”

She leans back in one more time to kiss him goodbye before hopping out of the Jeep, slamming the door shut. She shrugs the strap of her bag over her chest and walks up the sidewalk to let herself through the front door, but instead of walking to the elevator she stands in front of the glass windows, watching Stiles idle in front of the school for a long minute before he finally turns the Jeep around and drives away.


	19. blood and bone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was ready to go hours ago, and then AO3 crashed, because of course. Better tonight than tomorrow though, right? Fair warning this is over 10k so if you start this right before bed that's on you! Trigger warnings for all the tags apply here. It's my birthday tomorrow so please try not to yell at me too much in the comments this week ;)

“I can't do it,” [Malia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533497783329) says on Thursday, a little out of breath, pacing back and forth across the floor of the small basement practice studio.

[Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533497855333) looks up at Malia from where she's stretched out on the floor a few feet away. Malia's been practicing her solo for the showcase for over an hour and she hasn't made it all the way through once without stopping to ask Lydia something or go over some step she thinks she isn't doing right.

Lydia sighs, leaning up on her elbows in the middle of a straddle stretch. “You're being ridiculous.”

Malia reaches her arms up and links her hands behind her head. “I'm not good enough.”

“Well that attitude certainly isn't going to help you,” Lydia points out. 

Malia makes a frustrated noise. “You don't get it.”

Lydia walks her hands in towards her legs to sit up. “The problem isn't your technique, you're not focusing. You're letting your center go.”

“It's not that.” Malia shuts her eyes for a second. 

“I've been watching you for an hour, trust me, that's the problem.”

“It's not just that,” Malia insists. “I can't - you’re better than me, Cora's better than me, I can't keep up.”

“Okay, time to take a break,” Lydia decides.

“I can't take a break, I have to get this right.” Malia scuffs the toe of her pointe shoe against the floor. 

Lydia flops over onto her back and folds her legs in towards her chest to stretch her glutes. “Okay, what's going on with you?”

Malia scowls. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you were on a rebel without a cause tear for awhile, you're still skipping class sometimes, and now you're working yourself into a nervous fit over this.”

“Maybe all of your perfectionism is catching,” Malia snaps.

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Malia.”

Malia shakes her head. “Something happened.”

A chill runs up the back of Lydia's neck. “What happened?”

Malia continues to pace back and forth, her lips pressed together.

Lydia hauls herself up to her feet, her heart racing. “Malia, what happened?”

Malia glances at her before staring up at the ceiling. “I'm not supposed to know.”

“Know what?” Lydia presses the heel of her hand against her forehead, caught up in a wave of déjà vu.

“Do you remember when I told you that Derek would never let Peter work with the company again?”

Lydia shivers at the sound of Peter's name. “You failed to mention how you know that.”

“They made a deal. Cora found out, she finds out everything.”

“What kind of deal?”

Malia's still pacing, back and forth, back and forth. “Derek and Peter - I don't know, I didn't grow up with them, it's - it's different, for Derek and Cora. But after what happened with Laura… Derek doesn't trust Peter anymore. Not enough to let him come back to the company. Of course Peter refused to accept that. I think he always planned on coming back, and then Derek staged a freaking coup so…”

Lydia stares at her. “This is about the company?”

“He was never going to stop,” Malia says, her breath hitching. “So Derek offered him a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” Lydia asks cautiously.

“You know how everyone knows one of the spots in the company is going to go to Cora? I mean, they can't officially say that but we all know it's hers.”

“Yeah?”

A muscle in Malia's jaw twitches. “Peter made Derek give the second spot to me.”

There's a sudden rushing sound in Lydia's ears. “What?”

“Peter traded me to Derek,” Malia spits. “Derek takes me into the company and Peter walks away.”

“I don't understand,” Lydia says faintly. “Why would he do that?

“I told you, Peter was never going to stop,” Malia says. “And Derek was never going to take him back, they were at a stalemate. This way, everyone wins.” 

“I don't understand.” Lydia feels numb, like this isn't really happening, because how could Derek just _give_ away that second spot? “How does that work?”

“Derek gets full artistic control of the company, which is all he really cares about. And Peter gets to feel like he still has control over everyone, which is what he really cares about. Derek hates Peter, I think he blames him for what happened to Laura. And I'm… I come from him. I'm a physical reminder of the person Derek hates and he's going to have to go to work every day and see my face. I bet Peter just loves that.”

“Malia” -

“I used to fantasize about it, when I was a kid.” Malia's affect has gone flat. “In foster care. I used to dream about my real family showing up and taking me away. God, I was an idiot. I'm not really even his kid, I just have his DNA, I'm just a _pawn_ to him. And now they're going to throw me into the company even though I'm not ready. You know I'm not, I won't be able to keep up with them.”

“He can't do this.” Lydia's voice shakes. That spot is _hers_ , she's been working her ass off to earn that spot since she was ten. “He can't just give it away like that.”

“I'm sorry.” Malia won't stop moving, walking in small circles, hands curled into fists by her head. “I know it's supposed to be yours.”

“That’s not the point,” Lydia mutters.

“It's not fair.” Malia shakes her head. “Fuck, everything is so fucked up.”

“You don't have to take it.”

Malia snorts. “What else am I going to do? I don't have any money, my grades suck, I didn't apply to college because I wouldn't get in anyway. I can't audition for another company because my technique isn't good enough, the only way anyone would take me is if they knew I was a Hale, and I can't tell anyone I'm a Hale!”

“We can figure something out,” Lydia says quickly, her head beginning to spin.

“There isn't a way out.” Malia taps her knuckles against her temples. “I'm never getting out.”

“Malia.” Lydia takes a step forward but Malia skitters back, walking towards the wall. “Malia, what are you doing?”

“What do you think people would say, anyway, if they knew he was my dad?” Malia's eyes look glazed over. She reaches up and unties her bun, shakes out her honey brown waves and slides the hair tie over her wrist. “We're supposed to be special, right? Think of how many people would pay to see the bastard child of Peter Hale onstage. Now that would be a good scandal.”

“Malia, come on.”

“I don't think I can do it.” There's something in the way she says it that makes Lydia's spine stiffen, like a warning.

“Lets just go,” Lydia pleads. “Come on, you just need a break.”

“It's okay.” Malia sounds too calm, like she's made some kind of decision, even though her breathing has gone fast and shallow. “It's just the way it is.”

“Does Derek know you feel this way?”

“I can't talk to Derek. He doesn't get it.”

“Malia, come on, they can't make you dance for them if you don't want to.”

Malia leans up against the wall, her eyes a little teary. “You know what the most messed up part is? I don't know what I want anymore. I loved to dance. Before the accident I was in class four days a week. And then… I didn't get to start up again until I was twelve. I never really made that up. That's a long time to not dance. When Derek found me, I thought…” Malia trails off, shaking her head. “I thought I was finally going to have a family. And not just any family, _the_ family. And things were good, for awhile.”

Malia bumps her head against the wall. “And then Laura died and everything fell apart.”

“Do you want me to talk to Derek with you?” Lydia offers softly.

Malia shakes her head, sniffing hard like she's trying to stop herself from crying. “I just can't do it anymore.”

“What do you mean? Dance?”

Malia audibly swallows, her shallow breathing rapid. “I can't do it.”

“Malia, hey” -

“I'm sorry.” Malia inhales sharply, spinning towards the wall as she pulls her right arm back and -

Lydia screams. “Malia, don't!” 

Malia slams her fist into the wall and there's a terrible moment of silence, and then she crumples over, groaning, her hand cradled against her chest. Lydia runs over to her, falling onto her knees and reaching for Malia's hand. “Oh my god, what did you do?”

Malia's knuckles are already beginning to swell, her fingers limp against Lydia's palm. “Malia, why did you do that?” Lydia cries, horrified.

Malia blinks heavily at her, and a tear slides out of the corner of her eye. “I just wanted everything to stop.”

“Malia.” Lydia feels sick. “Oh my god, I can't believe you just did this.”

Malia moans, dropping her chin to her chest. “Oh shit.”

Lydia swallows back a wave of bile. “Can you wiggle your fingers?”

Malia winces but her fingertips tickle Lydia's hand. “Fuck, that hurts.”

“Make a fist,” Lydia demands.

Malia's hand shakes and she lets out a gasp of pain, and pulls it back against her chest. “It hurts.”

“I think it's broken,” Lydia says dumbly. 

“Oh shit.” Malia lets out a hysterical bubble of laughter. “Derek's going to kill me.”

Lydia stares at Malia's hand. “This is bad. You're going to have to get an x-ray.”

Malia groans. “Forget Derek, Nurse McCall is going to kill me before he even gets a chance.”

“I can't believe you did that.” Lydia feels dizzy, like she needs to lie down. 

“Yeah.” Malia looks dazed, a few tears rolling down her cheeks. “Me either.”

Lydia drops her head into her hands. “You're going to have to go the ER.”

Malia blanches. “Shit.” She covers her eyes with her good hand. “Derek's going to be so mad.”

“Do you want me to call him?”

“No!” Malia makes an awful wounded noise. “Just - let's just go.”

“To the ER?”

Malia nods and drops her forehead into her palm. “I'd prefer to postpone the yelling until someone's given me a painkiller.”

“Understandable,” Lydia mutters. “But we still need a way to get there, unless you want to walk to the bus like that.”

Malia's starting to look a little grey. “I think Scott's still here, maybe he can get his mom's car.”

“Okay.” Lydia presses the heels of her hands into her eyes for a second before she gets up and walks over to her bag, lightheaded. She gets her phone out of her bag and leans against the mirror as she dials Scott's number.

“Hey, Lydia,” he says brightly when he answers. “Everything okay?”

Lydia looks over at Malia, who's curled over, forehead pressed against her knees. “Are you still at school?”

“Yeah, I just finished up some charting for Deaton.”

Lydia reaches up and twists her fingers around her ponytail. “Do you have access to your mom's car?”

“Yeah, today's actually her day off, I drove it here after school, why?”

“I need you to give me and Malia a ride. Can you meet us by the back door?”

“Why?” Scott sounds suspicious.

“You'll see. We just - it's an emergency.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“The kind that requires a ride. And an ice pack.”

“Okay,” Scott says, because Scott's too nice for his own good. “Meet you there in five?”

“Thanks,” Lydia says, and hangs up before he can ask her another question. She bends down and gathers up all of Malia's stuff and carries it back over to where she's sitting on the floor. “Scott's going to drive us.”

Malia exhales sharply. “Okay.”

Lydia crosses her legs. “Put your feet in my lap, I'll do your shoes for you.”

Malia leans back and puts weight on her good hand as she extends her legs so her feet are propped up on Lydia's thighs. She unknots the ribbons of Malia's pointe shoes and eases them off her feet, puts them in her bag for her and helps her get her Nikes on. Lydia unbuttons Malia's jacket and slides it around her shoulders, not bothering to attempt to get her broken hand through the sleeve. She helps Malia stand up and slings both of their bags over her arm.

“Come on,” Lydia prompts gently. “We're going to meet him at the back entrance, let's go.”

Malia takes a careful step, holding her broken hand against her chest. “Wait, slow down.”

Lydia exhales through her nose and reaches out to grip Malia's good hand, trying not to think about Scott carrying her down to the ambulance last year when Jackson dropped her, but she can still feel it - how afraid she was, shocked at how much it hurt, helpless in Scott's arms. Malia shuffles out of the studio with her, taking small steps down the hallway towards the stairs. When they get to the steps Malia makes this horrible noise and Lydia stops, looking sharply at her.

“I'm okay,” Malia breathes. “I just need a second.”

“You have a broken hand, you are most certainly not okay,” Lydia snaps.

“Gonna be hard to put me onstage with a cast on my hand.” Malia closes her eyes, still very pale. 

“If you wanted out this badly you should've told Derek,” Lydia chastises. 

“He wouldn't have understood.” Malia lets out a shallow breath. “Why do you think Laura did what she did?”

Lydia's mouth drops open. “Laura's _dead_.”

Malia looks like she's on the verge of passing out. “Violence is the only thing people like that understand.”

“Don't talk like that.” Lydia snaps her fingers in front of Malia's face. “Malia, stay with me.”

“I'm sorry.” Malia's eyelashes flutter as she speaks, her voice suddenly very quiet. “I just get so mad sometimes.”

“Shit.” They're only halfway up the stairs, there's no way Malia's going to make it all the way up. Lydia tilts her head up, wondering if Scott's made it to the back door already. “Scott?” she shouts hopefully. “Scott?”

“Lydia?” A few second later his head pops over the railing of the stairs. “What's wrong?”

“A little help here!” Lydia gives him an exasperated look, holding tightly onto Malia's arm as she sways next to her on the step.

Scott scampers down the stairs, his Timberlands squeaking against the steps. He stops two stairs above them, his eyes widening when he sees Malia, a ziplock baggie full of ice clutched in one hand. “What happened?”

“I think she broke her hand,” Lydia explains.

He comes down one more step, reaching for Malia. “How the hell did that happen?”

“I got in a fight with a wall,” Malia says weakly, and slumps forward into him, her head falling onto his chest.

Scott shoots Lydia a confused glance over the top of Malia's head as he wraps his arms around her and lays the ice pack over her swollen knuckles. “Okay, come on, I've got you.”

Lydia trudges after them as Scott leads Malia up the rest of the stairs and out the back door to the parking lot. The sun went down while they were inside, it's now dusky twilight, the sky a deep midnight blue, a crescent moon glowing above the trees of the preserve. His mom’s car is parked in her reserved spot, Scott digs the keys out of the back pocket of his jeans and hustles Malia into the passenger seat. Lydia dumps their dance bags into the car before sliding into the backseat. Scott gets into the front seat and starts the car, carefully checks all his mirrors before he shifts into drive and pulls out of the parking lot.

Lydia stares out the window as Scott drives down the tree lined road, school getting smaller and smaller behind them until he turns onto the main street and it disappears. In front of her Malia’s breathing is choppy, Lydia can see Scott's hand curled around Malia's good one over the gear shift.

“You're okay,” Scott says quietly to her, putting on his blinker to make a right turn. “Almost there.”

When they get to the hospital Scott parks the car in the employee lot instead of dropping them off in front of the ER, getting a parking pass out of the glove compartment and hanging it on the rearview mirror. Lydia gets Malia's bag for her and slides out of the car; Scott gets out and walks around the front, takes the bag from her and opens the passenger door for Malia. Scott has to unbuckle her seatbelt for her and help her out of the car. Malia's bottom lip is ragged where she's obviously been chewing on it and Lydia can see that her hand is worse, her knuckles are swelled up and disfigured, she definitely broke something.

“Alright, let's go,” Scott says calmly, and slings his arm over Malia's shoulders.

Lydia follows them through the parking lot and down the sidewalk until they get to the entrance of the ER. Scott yanks one of the glass doors open and ushers Malia through, tilting his head for Lydia to follow her. She takes one step inside, Scott following behind her, and suddenly she's seventeen again and her body is on fire and she can't breathe and the fluorescent lights are blinding.

She gasps, her hands pressed against her ribs, everything in front of her a spinning blur of electric white light, a sour taste coming up the back of her throat.

“Lydia.” Scott's standing in front of her, one hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

She blinks rapidly, her eyes tearing up. “I can't,” she grits out. “I can't…”

“Okay, it's fine, I can handle it.” Scott squeezes her shoulder. “Go wait outside.”

Lydia glances at Malia but she isn't paying attention, she's curled up in a plastic chair with her injured right hand held gingerly in her left, head resting back against the wall, eyes half shut.

“Go,” Scott says again. “I've got this.”

She looks back at Malia one last time as Scott walks over to the nurse in charge of triage and stumbles back outside. She takes great big gulps of air, walking with one hand along the hospital exterior to a bench a few feet away. Lydia sinks down and drops her head into her shaking hands, inhales slowly while counting to ten in her head and then exhales, ignoring the nausea rushing through her body.

She can't stop thinking about it, the sound Malia's hand made when she punched the wall, the memory of falling last spring, the feeling of her rib cracking layering over it until it's all just noise in her head, images of bones snapping and crumbling into dust. Lydia presses her hand against her ribs, shivering in the warm night air, every breath she takes a flame that threatens to burn her up from the inside out.

What did it sound like, when Laura Hale pressed the mouth of a shotgun to her temple and pulled the trigger? 

Did she think about it first, how the bones of her skull would shatter, leave a mess of blood and grey matter on the walls of her dead parents’ house? Did she imagine what it would look like when they found her, how she would destroy her beautiful face, how the bullet would fracture bone and burst blood vessels on its journey to her brain.

Or maybe it was like Malia. A split second decision, a panicked impulse with irreversible consequences.

_I just wanted everything to stop._

It all comes down to Peter, Lydia thinks. Beautiful girls held down under his thumb until they can't take it anymore, until they're willing to do whatever it takes to get out.

She stays on the bench, head in her hands, losing time, minutes falling through her fingers, imagining what it would feel like, to break like that, if it would be a relief, a salvation, to be free of Peter's hands around her throat, no longer haunted by blue eyes or teeth sharp enough to bite.

Then again, death is its own kind of prison. Laura Hale, forever young and beautiful, idolized by legions of young ballet dancers who have no comprehension of the kind of suffering it took to build a talent like that, until the suffering took over until there was nothing left but the body of a young woman with a hole in her head.

“Lydia?”

She jumps, her head snapping up. Derek Hale is crouched in front of her on the sidewalk wearing a grey henley under a leather jacket, his beautiful strange eyes a little wide, like he's worried. 

“Lydia,” he says again. “Are you okay?”

She gapes at him. “What are you doing here?”

“The hospital called me. Where's Malia?”

Lydia thinks about Malia's hand flying into the wall and she opens her mouth to say, inside, but then Derek's face dissolves into a blur of little black dots and she starts to slide off the bench, curling her fingers around the edge of the seat so she doesn't fall.

“Whoa, hey, okay.” Derek jumps up to sit next to her on the bench. “Put your head down.”

She's too helpless to do anything but comply, dropping her head to her knees. Derek's hand comes to her back, between her shoulder blades, but it doesn't feel threatening or bad, just a warm solid weight holding her in place.

“Breathe,” Derek says. “Are you hurt?”

Lydia shakes her head against her knees, shivering under his hand.

“Okay,” he says, voice softer than she's ever heard. “Is Malia inside?”

“Scott's with her,” she whispers.

“Okay,” he says again, and after a minute, when it's clear Lydia isn't going to pass out, he pulls his hand away. “Stay here,” he instructs.

Lydia nods, picking her head up enough to watch him get up and go down the sidewalk and disappear through the doors of the ER. She sighs and drops her head back down, cradling her forehead in her palms, and a few minutes later Scott comes out, looking around until he spots her.

“Hey,” he calls out, ambling over to her. “Derek's with her, Malia's getting x-rayed. He said he could take it from here.”

Lydia nods, her fingers curled around the bench so hard her knuckles have turned white. “Okay.”

“Here.” Scott unzips his navy hoodie and drapes it over her. “You look cold.”

“Thanks,” she says through numb lips.

“Come on.” Scott reaches down and takes her hand, and Lydia lets him pull her up off the bench, his sweatshirt warm around her shoulders

They walk back to the car together; when Scott unlocks it Lydia gets into the passenger seat, picks up the bag of melted ice off the edge of the seat and drops it into the cup holder before buckling her seatbelt. Scott gets into the driver's seat and puts the keys in the ignition before glancing over at her.

“Are you okay?” Scott asks softly.

Lydia sighs, pulling his sweatshirt tight around herself, fingers playing with the zipper. “I'm sorry,” she apologizes. “It was like…”

“It's okay, I get it,” he says quickly.

She stares out her window at the parking lot. “Thank you. You didn't have to do this.”

She twitches when Scott reaches over to pat her hand. “Yeah, I did,” he says firmly.

“Do you think she's going to be okay?”

Scott shrugs. “They won't know for sure until they look at the x-ray but the doctor said he thought she had a boxer’s fracture.”

“Break of the neck of the fourth or fifth metacarpal bones,” Lydia translates. 

“She'll still be able to dance,” Scott points out. 

Lydia nods absently, remembering Malia's manic rant before she broke her hand. _I can't do it anymore_. “That's good.”

Scott turns the engine over and buckles his seatbelt. “Is it okay if we stop at the diner before I take you back to school? Malia said you guys hadn't had dinner yet and I haven't eaten either, I'm starving.”

“Okay,” Lydia agrees, because how can she tell him no, after he dropped everything to help her?

She stares out the window as Scott drives them through Beacon Hills to the diner. Lydia hasn't eaten since before partnering class earlier today but instead of feeling hungry she just feels sick. She rolls the window down a little and sucks in fresh air, fingers stroking over her ribcage. When they get to the diner Scott parks the car and they get out, Lydia follows him inside and over to a red padded booth in the far corner of the diner next to the windows.

Scott drops his elbows down on the table and rubs his eyes as she slides in across from him. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I was up really late night studying for an AP Bio test, I was kind of planning on crashing as soon as I was done with Deaton today.”

Lydia presses her lips together, feeling a wave of guilt on top of everything else, and Scott groans. “I didn't mean it like that.”

“It's fine,” she murmurs, picking at the edge of the laminated menu. “I get it.”

Scott's expression softens. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

Laura holding a gun to her head and pulling the trigger, Malia slamming her fist into the wall. The sound a bone makes when it breaks.

“No,” she says crisply, and looks down at the menu without reading a single word.

When the waitress comes Scott orders a turkey melt and a side of fries. Lydia's mind goes blank, she orders a Diet Coke and pushes her menu to the edge of the table, and the waitress nods and scurries off to put in their order.

When she looks back at Scott he's staring at her, giving her the puppy dog eyes. “Lydia” -

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she announces, and slides out of the booth.

The bathroom is empty, Lydia stands in front of the sink and examines herself in the mirror. Her eyes look too big in her face, her skin is milky pale, and her ponytail is starting to fall apart. Lydia sighs and pulls her hair elastic out, bends upside down and shakes out her hair before gathering it on the top of her head and tying it up in a messy bun. She runs cold water over the insides of her wrists for a minute, washes her hands, dries them with a paper towel and goes back to the table.

Scott's food comes a few minutes later, he picks up one half of his sandwich and drops it onto the empty plate in front of her. Lydia stares at it, the bread toasted golden brown and glistening with butter, melted cheese oozing over the side. Her mouth floods with saliva and Lydia swallows, her empty stomach contracting like an angry fist.

“I don't want that,” she says, hating the way her voice shakes.

“But you need to eat.” Scott sounds a little raw. “Come on. Please.”

He really does look tired, a little pale beneath his tan, bruised circles under his eyes, his hands shaking a little as he squirts ketchup over his fries. She wonders what it's like for Scott, to always be the person everyone goes to for help. It must be a lot of pressure, to be the one who's always trying to save everyone. And he looks so sad, like it's hurting him to sit here and watch her do this to herself.

“Lydia.” His voice is soft and pleading. “I'm your friend. Talk to me.”

“Fine,” she sighs, and breaks off a small piece of the sandwich.

His relief is palpable, Scott sinks back against his side of the booth and stuffs a couple of fries into his mouth. Lydia dissects the sandwich, pulls the top piece of bread apart into little pieces and eats them one by one, sucking on them until they're so soft they slide right down her throat. She uses her fork for the meat, scraping as much cheese off as she can. Scott doesn't say anything but she can feel him watching her, her cheeks flaming as she methodically eats, sucking down gulps of Diet Coke in between each bite.

When they finish eating Scott pays and Lydia follows him back out to the car. They get inside and Scott turns the engine over, flips on the headlights and carefully backs out of the parking spot, turning onto the street in the direction of HSB. Lydia unzips his hoodie, shrugs it off and flips it around to lay it over herself like a blanket, watching lights blur out the window as he drives. Scott doesn't say anything the whole drive, not until he turns down the private road that leads straight to school.

“She hurt herself on purpose,” he says in a low voice. “Right?”

Lydia sighs, dark shadowed trees flicking past the window. “I don't think she really knew what she was doing, but yeah. She did.”

Scott frowns. “What do you mean?”

Lydia rubs her forehead, she can feel a tension headache coming on. “She was upset, she wasn't thinking clearly.”

He turns into the circular driveway in front of the building and pulls the car up to the curb. “That's messed up.”

“Yeah,” Lydia murmurs, folding up his sweatshirt and hanging it over the headrest before unbuckling her seatbelt.

He leans back in his seat, turning a little to give her a tender look that makes her want to hide from him. “Are you sure you're okay?”

She looks away for a second to compose herself. “I said I was fine.”

“Lydia,” Scott says softly. “No, you're not.”

“I told you, I don't want to talk about it.”

He taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “Does Stiles know?”

“About what?” she asks, her voice high and sharp.

He gives her an incredulous look. “You know what.”

Lydia recoils, pressing up against the door. “You can't tell him.”

“Lydia” -

“It's none of anyone's business,” she snaps. “That's private.”

“Okay one, you're my friend, so it kind of is my business, and two, he's dating you, don't you think he has a right to know?”

“No,” she argues furiously. “I don't.”

Scott sighs. “Look, I know you're scared” -

“I'm not _scared_ ,” she lies, her chest tightening.

“You know his mom died, right?”

“Oh my god,” she mutters. “Yes, I'm aware. Relevance?”

“She was in the hospital for a while, before. Do know how messed up that is, to have to sit and watch someone you love get sicker and sicker and not be able to do anything about it?”

Lydia stares at him. “What exactly is it that you're trying to say, Scott?”

He locks his jaw. “I'm saying I won't let him go through something like that again.”

The rushing sound in her ears comes back. “I'm not sick.”

The knowing look he gives her makes her want to hit him. “Come on Lydia. You're smart, you know exactly what you're doing.”

“I have to go,” she says thickly. “If I sign in late I'll get written up.”

“You can't keep running away from this and expect nothing bad to happen.”

“I don't remember asking you for your opinion.” Lydia twists around and grabs her bag from the backseat. “Don't tell anyone about what happened with Malia.”

Scott gapes at her. “Seriously?”

“It's complicated. I'll tell Allison, I'm not saying you have to keep it a huge secret, considering she's going to be walking around in a cast, but trust me, you don't want to get caught talking about that family at school.”

“I don't even know anything!”

“Good, trust me, it's better for you that way.” Lydia stares up at school, the building imposing and distinctly ominous feeling. “Look, thank you for driving us and for… for going in with her.”

“Lydia.” Scott reaches across the car and curls his fingers around her wrist. “Are you guys in some kind of trouble?”

She manages to summon up every last shred of strength inside of her to give him a smile. “Everything's fine, Scott. Go home.”

Lydia climbs out of the car and slams the door shut, and pretends that she doesn't notice that Scott waits for her to make it inside before he drives away.

*

Allison's asleep in bed when Lydia lets herself into their room, all the lights turned off. Lydia blinks in surprise when she sees the clock, it's past eleven. They must have been at the hospital longer than she realized. She closes the door with a gentle click and locks it, places her bag down on the floor and quietly takes off her Nikes, grabs [clothes](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533498109104) to sleep in and goes into the bathroom to change. She takes her makeup off and washes her face, brushes her teeth, and turns the light off, pads to her bed in the dark and gets under the covers. 

Lydia lies there for a long time, curled up with her arms around her shins, thighs pressed against her chest, thinking about the look on Malia's face right before she broke her hand, Laura Hale sneaking out of the stage door in her costume, until she finally drifts off to sleep. 

She dreams about the woods, somewhere that looks like the preserve. She's running through the trees in her pointe shoes, wearing the costume Laura wore in The Little Mermaid, the night she died. Something slams into her from behind and Lydia cries out as she falls, the blue tulle ripped from her body. She kicks out desperately but then teeth sink into her side and she screams as blood pours out of her and -

Lydia jackknifes up in bed, her hands pressed against her side, gasping for breath. The cartilage in between her ribs is spasming and hot tears are running down her face, she was crying in her sleep.

“Lydia?” Allison rolls over onto one side, her eyes still closed. 

“Everything's fine,” Lydia grits out.

“Where were you?” Allison mumbles, and flops back over on her other side.

“I practiced late,” Lydia whispers, and presses her lips together so she doesn't cry out when she gets out of bed. “Go back to sleep.”

“Okay,” Allison sighs.

Lydia drags herself to the bathroom and shuts the door before she turns the light on, blinking rapidly until her eyes adjust. She opens the cabinet above the sink and finds the bottle of ibuprofen she and Allison keep there, she shakes three pills into her palm and swallows them with water from the tap. She digs under the sink until she finds a package of single-use heat wraps, rips the plastic wrapper off of one and lays it on the counter. She pulls her tee shirt up and tucks the hem under her chin, peels the paper backing off the wrap and carefully applies it over her ribs, pushing down on the edges so it adheres to her skin. She splashes cold water over her face and turns the light off, takes slow bracing steps back to her bed.

She knows she won't be able to fall back asleep right away so she gets her headphones and plugs them into her phone, puts the earbuds in and slowly lays down on her back, taking measured shallow breaths. Lydia scrolls through her music and selects her Swan Lake playlist. She closes her eyes as the music starts to play, slow and soft. She lays one hand over the heat wrap, breathing slowly as a few more tears slide out of the corners of her eyes. She's so tired that she can't help crying a little, every breath she takes is total agony, but at some point the ibuprofen kicks in and she falls asleep with her headphones in, and when she wakes up in the morning it's to Allison standing over her wrapped in a towel, wet hair combed back from her face.

“I think you forgot to set your alarm,” Allison says.

Lydia blinks at her, it feels like there's glass dust in her eyes, knives in her ribs. “Apparently.”

“Come on.” Allison starts walking over to her closet. “Get dressed, we can get breakfast together.”

“Okay,” Lydia croaks, reluctantly pulls back the covers and swings her legs over the side of her bed to get up.

In the bathroom she peels off the heat wrap and tosses it in the trash. Her ribs still hurt but it's dull and achy now, not the hot sharp pain of last night, the skin pink and a little sweaty from the heat wrap. She changes into her [leotard](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533498180958) and tights, tugs the Alo pullover Allison got her for her birthday over her head and pulls on a pair of leg warmers over her tights. She washes her face and puts on tinted moisturizer, brushes her hair and pins it into a bun at the nape of her neck. Lydia applies a layer of concealer around her eyes and lines her waterline in white pencil before applying mascara. She brushes her teeth and spits, stares at herself in the mirror for a second before shaking her head and walking back into her room, where [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533498249628) is waiting for her on her bed, dressed and ready to go.

They go down to the cafeteria together; Lydia gets a cup of coffee and stirs in a few drops of half-and-half, grabs a Greek yogurt and meets Allison in line, gets her ID scanned and follows Allison over to a table. She zones out while Allison eats her cereal and tells Lydia about what she did in her rehearsal with Isaac last night, stirring her spoon through her yogurt.

“You must have practiced really late,” Allison comments. “I didn't even hear you come in.”

Lydia leans back in her chair and lets yogurt drip off her spoon and back into the container. Malia, unsurprisingly, isn't here this morning. Cora's sitting a few tables away with Ethan, Danny and Jackson, Erica's with Boyd and Isaac, and Kira's sitting by herself, flipping through a magazine as she eats a bowl of oatmeal.

“Lydia?” Allison prompts.

Lydia blinks and takes a sip of coffee. Suddenly it feels wrong to tell Allison, because how could she explain what happened without telling her about Peter? She glances back over at Cora, who's sitting there eating a piece of toast and laughing at at something Ethan's telling her like everything is normal. Maybe she doesn't know about Malia yet. “Sorry. Yeah, it went longer than I thought it would.”

There's a glass of orange juice sitting on Allison's tray, neon orange and thick with pulp. Lydia taps her fingers against the table to distract herself as she coats her spoon with a thin layer of yogurt and licks it off. She thinks about Scott pushing half his sandwich at her last night and suddenly her yogurt tastes sour. She wonders how long she has until he tells Allison and decides she's too tired to care about that right now. She crumples up her napkin and lays it over her yogurt, picks up her mug and finishes her coffee.

Allison frowns down at Lydia's tray. “What's wrong?”

“My yogurt tastes off, it's probably expired.” Lydia bends down and picks up her bag. “I'm going to go warm up, see you there.”

She walks off before Allison can respond, dropping her yogurt into the trash on her way out of the cafeteria. She takes the elevator up to the third floor and goes into Studio B. She's the first one there, Lydia drops her bag on the floor and sits down, stretches her legs out to the sides, walks her hands out and lies down on her stomach, her forehead pressed to the floor. She shuts her eyes, aware of the ache in her side and the bitter taste in her mouth. She moves through a fluid stretching series on the floor, trying to clear her head so she'll be able to focus during class.

When the other girls trickle into the studio Lydia sits up and pulls on her canvas ballet slippers and goes over to the bar to work on relevés. Marin comes in and everyone else joins Lydia at the barre to starts class. Lydia wonders if Marin knows about the deal Derek made with Peter, if Marin gets any say as to who gets into the company.

It suddenly feels completely pointless to be here, when it's possible she doesn't even have a chance of getting into the company, isn't even being considered. Everyone knows they're taking two girls this year, and one of those spots has always belonged to Cora. Can Derek even do that, just give the other spot away? But then again, Lydia knows firsthand how persuasive Peter can be, how he’ll do anything to get what he wants.

All that work, years and year of single minded dedication, for nothing.

Lydia doesn't know how she gets through class, except for the magic of muscle memory, her body taking over for her. Lydia pushes through the floor section when they get off the barre, repressing a shudder every time the piano bangs out a particularly loud chord, trying not to think of the sound it makes when bone crashes into a wall.

She spends the break between technique and pointe in the bathroom, sitting on the floor in a stall with her head pillowed on her knees. Lydia ignores Allison's concerned look when she goes back in for pointe; she tapes a few blisters and pulls on her toe pads before tying on her pointe shoes. Lydia doesn't have a terrible class but it's not good either, she's too stiff, her face blank in the mirror as she watches herself move through each combination.

She goes down to the cafeteria with the rest of the girls for lunch, painfully aware of Malia's absence, but no one brings it up so she doesn't either. She gets a chicken panini because Allison looks a little distressed, conspicuously watching Lydia move through the lunch line. The girls all sit at a table together, Lydia pulls her sandwich apart into bite sized pieces, scoops half of them into her napkin when the other girls aren't looking and walks across the cafeteria to throw it away. She gets a little lightheaded as she makes her way back to the table, pain flaring up in her ribs. She bites the inside of her cheek as she sits back down, takes a sip of water and presses the cold glass to her cheek.

She somehow makes it through partnering that afternoon without falling apart, letting Aiden pull her around the room as they all work on a pas de deux in groups. When class is over Lydia tugs her shirt back over her head and takes her pointe shoes off, puts her Nikes on and goes down to the first floor, her hand pressed against the throb in her side. She walks down the back hallway to Deaton’s office, her heart sinking when she sees Scott sitting behind the desk.

He gives her a cautious smile, like he can sense her apprehension. “Hey Lydia. Everything okay?”

“Can I use the infrared blanket?”

He nods, getting up from his chair. “Sure, come on.”

Lydia follows him back to the smaller exam room, she takes her shoes off and hops up onto the table, stretching out on her left side. Scott gets the infrared blanket out of a cabinet and plugs it into the wall, turns it on and bumps the temperature setting up to 120 degrees before leaning back against the wall.

“It needs a few minutes to warm up,” he explains.

Lydia nods, her lips pressed together, watching Scott's face flicker in and out of focus. “Okay.”

He sighs, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair. “Your ribs bothering you?”

She nods, curling the edges of her sleeves over her hands.

“You take any ibuprofen?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it helping?”

“A little.”

“Okay.” Scott tilts his head from side to side, stretching his neck. “Hey, have you heard anything about Malia?”

“Not yet.”

Scott nods. “Look, I'm sorry about last night, for what I said in the car… I wasn't trying to upset you.”

“I know,” she says. “It's okay.”

“Have you, um, thought about talking to somebody? About what's going on?”

She gives him a withering look and Scott lets out a dry chuckle. “Right,” he says. “Of course not.”

“It's not that bad,” she says dully.

“You told Allison it was getting worse.”

She lifts one shoulder in defeat, tilting her head back to look up at the ceiling. “I just need to get through the showcase.”

“And then what?” Scott's voice is gentle but she can hear the nervous edge underneath it. “Everything magically goes back to normal?”

“I don't know,” she snaps back.

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, sorry I asked.” 

Lydia tongues over the place where she bit her cheek earlier. “No, it's fine. I'm sorry, I didn't sleep well last night.”

“Me either.” He glances at the blanket and carries it over to her. “It's ready now.”

He unfolds the thick black material and lays it over her ribs, shaking out the cord so it's not tangled. “How's that?”

“Good.” She swallows, taking a breath as heat sinks in through the fabric of her leotard. “Thanks.”

Scott nods. “I'll come back in half an hour. Lights off?”

“Sure.” 

He nods, turning around, but then he hesitates and comes back, standing at the edge of the table. “Look, I know that I don't know what it's like to go through what you're going through but I'm here if you ever want to talk about it.”

Lydia presses her lips together and gives him a tight smile. “I know.”

“Okay.” Scott bends down and kisses her forehead. “Take a nap, I'll come back in thirty minutes.”

There's something thick in the back of her throat suddenly, like she's going to cry. “Okay.”

Scott smiles and walks away, turning the light off before leaving the room and shutting the door behind him. Lydia sighs loudly to herself and shuts her eyes, she doesn't really expect to be able to sleep like this but she must, because the next thing she knows Scott's bending over her, pulling the blanket off, and Lydia's so out of it that she lets him help her off the table. She sits down on the floor to get her shoes on as Scott puts the blanket away, and takes his hand when he offers it to stand back up.

“Hey,” he says, following her out of the exam room. “My mom's working a night shift at the hospital tomorrow night, Allison's coming over. You and Stiles should come too, we can watch a movie.”

Lydia blinks sleepily at him, pushing a strand of hair that's escaped from her bun back behind her ear. “Okay,” she says, her voice a little rusty.

Scott smiles and guides her through the office with one hand on the small of her back. “Okay. See you tomorrow then.”

“Okay,” Lydia agrees. “Bye Scott.”

“Feel better,” he says, so sweetly, and Lydia has to leave before she can really start to melt down, his kindness almost unbearable.

She goes up to her room and peels off her clothes in the bathroom, takes a shower and washes her hair. She feels disoriented, still half asleep and too tired to blow out her hair so she combs it out and braids it over one shoulder. Lydia wraps herself in a towel and packs her bag for the weekend, changes into [jeans](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533498309484) and a striped top, slips on her Chloe flats, shoulders her bags and goes down to the office to wait for her mother to finish work.

They stop at the cafe to pick up takeout on the way home, Lydia's mouth watering as she sits in the passenger seat with the bag of food in her lap. When they get home they set up at the dining room table, her mother pours herself a glass of wine and sits down across from Lydia. She has another power bowl tonight, she takes her fork and moves everything around, divide and conquer. She eats all the mango out of the bowl first, then the chicken. She mashes up the avocado slices with her fork and takes tiny bites of quinoa, sipping from her water glass between every bite.

Her mother looks up from her salmon, a slight frown on her face. “Are you feeling alright?”

Lydia drops her fork into her bowl. “What?”

Her mother purses her lips. “You signed in rather late last night.”

“Checking up on me?” Lydia asks icily.

“I'm your mother, don't be ridiculous.”

Lydia catches strings of shredded carrots with her fork. “Malia and I went out for food when we were done practicing.”

Her mother gets up to refill her wine glass from the bottle on the counter. “Alright.”

Lydia leans back in her chair and raises an eyebrow at her. “Alright?”

“Honey, I just think your time would be better spent working on your own piece than helping someone whose cousin is now running the company.”

It hits her all over again, a crashing wave of panic - that everything she's worked for has been for nothing, that the only thing she's ever dared to dream of since she was ten years old has vanished from her reality.

Is that why Malia did it? Did she sacrifice herself or was she really trying to get out, even if she had to hurt herself to do it?

“Lydia?” Her mother corks the wine. “Are you listening to me? The showcase will be here before you know it, you need to stay focused.”

“Right,” Lydia says faintly. “Because that's the only thing that really matters, isn't it?”

“Excuse me, if I'm remembering correctly you were the one who begged me to let you audition for the school, you're the one who wanted to move here. Do you have any idea how much your father and I sacrificed to give you this? Please tell me you're not having doubts about dancing for the company now, sweetheart.”

Lydia contemplates it, just for a moment - telling her mother that there might not be a spot for her, confessing what happened with Peter, all the little things Lydia's done to herself to be ready for this, the uneaten food and the secret late night workouts.

And then she looks at her mother, someone who left her father to bring her here because it was what Lydia wanted, who works six days a week, who's given her everything she's ever asked for.

It would break her heart.

“I need to stretch,” Lydia announces, puts the rest of her dinner in the fridge to save for later, and goes up to her room.

She unrolls her yoga mat but she can't build up the momentum to get up to change her clothes. She sits down and curls over her knees, holds her head in her hands and closes her eyes. 

What does it matter, if she stretches? If she can't get into the company none of it matters, not anymore.

Maybe Malia was wrong. Maybe Cora heard wrong, missed some detail, misunderstood something. Maybe Malia's broken hand is her way of forfeiting her spot to someone more deserving, and a ray of hope flares in Lydia's chest, followed by a hot rush of shame, because she doesn't want to win like this.

She jumps when her phone starts ringing on the floor next to her mat, Stiles’ smiling face materializing on the screen. Lydia picks up herself phone, takes a deep breath, and answers. “Hi, Stiles.”

“Hey, you doing anything right now?”

Lydia looks around her room, where her bags are still sitting on her bed, unpacked. “Not particularly.”

“Want to go for a drive?”

“Right now?”

“Yeah, I can come get you in ten.”

“Okay,” Lydia agrees, because she knows what will happen if she says no - she'll stay in her room all night, working herself into a panic. “See you soon.”

She takes off her jeans and top and walks over to her closet, selects a floral print [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533498358223) and pulls it over her head. She takes her braid out and shakes out her hair, letting it fall in perfect messy waves down her shoulders. She glances at her reflection in the mirror on her vanity and slicks on lip gloss, puts her phone into her Chloé bag and ties the ribbons of her wedges around her ankles before going downstairs.

“I'm going out, Mom!” she shouts, and walks right out the door.

She's sitting on the bottom porch step when Stiles pulls into the driveway. Lydia walks down to the Jeep, hops up into the passenger seat and shuts the door. Stiles is wearing jeans and a soft looking blue tee shirt under an unzipped grey hoodie, his hands curled around the steering wheel.

“Hey,” he says, and shifts into reverse, backs out of the driveway while she buckles her seatbelt, and turns down her street.

Lydia watches him drive as he makes a left turn in the direction of downtown Beacon Hills. He's uncharacteristically quiet tonight, a little muscle in his jaw twitching as he brakes for a red light. The windows are rolled down and Lydia gathers up her hair and tucks it over her left shoulder so it can't fly in front of her face. Stiles isn't even looking at her, he’ staring blankly at the traffic light, drumming his fingers against the wheel.

“Okay,” she says, turning slightly in her seat to face him. “What's wrong?”

His mouth twists a little as the light turns green and he hits the gas. “Got into a fight with my dad.”

Lydia reaches out and rests her fingers against the back his right hand and after a minute he takes his hand off the wheel and flips it over to link their fingers together. Lydia squeezes his hand, settling back in her seat. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shrugs, checking his mirrors before changing lanes. “I got into GW.”

“And that's a bad thing?”

“I told my dad I wasn't going, and he flipped out.”

“Why?”

“Why aren't I going or why did he lose his shit?”

Lydia strokes her thumb over the back of his hand. “Both.”

Stiles lets out a heavy sigh. “It's too far away. I can't - it's a good school but Lydia, I can't be that far away from my dad. He's the sheriff, his job is inherently dangerous, what if something happens to him and I'm not here?”

“You're worried about him.”

“He's all I have left.” His voice cracks. “And when I told him that he said he'd be damned if he was the reason I didn't take an opportunity like that.”

“Maybe he doesn't want to feel like he's holding you back.”

“Well it's not his choice, is it?”

“He's your dad Stiles, he just wants what's best for you.”

“What if that's not what's best for me? I mean yeah, I'm the one that applied, but I didn't really think I'd get in. I got into San Francisco too, it's in state, I could visit my dad on the weekends. I wouldn't be worrying all the time about what he was eating, or if he was drinking again...” He sighs and smacks the heel of his hand against the wheel. “I don't know. What would you do? If the Hale Company was on the other side of the country?”

“I'd go,” she says immediately, trying to stay focused and not fall into a fantasy of moving to San Francisco with Stiles. If he went to school there they'd be in the same city, they could see each other every night if they wanted to.

If she was with the company, that is.

“Yeah.” Stiles sounds dejected. 

“Hey.” Lydia squeezes his hand. “Do you want to know what I really think?”

He glances at her before looking back at the road. “Yeah, okay.”

Lydia lines up their hands palm-to-palm, curling her fingers against his. “I think you're a good son.”

She can feel the tension leak out of him as he looks over at her again. “You do?”

“You want to go to a school close to home just so you can keep an eye on him.”

“Apparently that's tantamount to a crime,” Stiles mutters. 

“Hey.” Lydia squeezes his hand. “You're right. It's your choice. It's your decision, and I think I know enough about your dad to know that in the end he’ll understand. You have to do what you think is right for yourself, no one gets to make that decision for you.”

His mouth curves up in a smile. “Thanks, Lydia.”

“So you got into San Francisco too?”

He nods, signaling left for the upcoming light. “Yeah, it was one of my safety schools.”

What is she going to do if the company really doesn't have a spot for her? Audition for the San Francisco ballet, she supposes, or Pacific Northwest, Salt Lake City. It makes her feel sick, the idea of living in fucking Utah, dancing for a company she's not even interested in, but what else is she going to do? 

_Quit?_

It's unthinkable.

“We should celebrate,” she says. Her future might be becoming more nebulous by the minute but Stiles got into college, he deserves a night to feel good, his future secured, tangible, printed out on a sheet of paper with a university logo.

Stiles grins. “I want donuts.”

Lydia rolls her eyes up to the roof of the Jeep. “Alright, I suppose we can get celebratory donuts.”

“So you don't think I'll be making a huge mistake if I pass up GW then?” he asks.

“I think you should _think_ about it,” she says carefully. “But you're smart, you'll figure out what will make you the happiest.”

“Aw,” Stiles says cheekily, “you care about my happiness, that's so sweet.”

“I have no idea why, you're terribly obnoxious.” Lydia flicks her fingers against his palm.

“I knew you were only with me for my good looks,” he teases.

“You got me,” Lydia says dryly, and can't help but break into a smile when Stiles throws his head back and laughs.

He takes them to a drive-through donut place Lydia didn't even know existed; Stiles pulls up to a window and orders two vanilla glazed with sprinkles and looks at her. “What kind do you want?”

“Oh, I'm okay,” she says casually.

“Lydia.” He give her an exasperated look. “I thought you were going to emotionally support me here.”

“I have to emotionally support you by eating a donut?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he says emphatically. “We're celebrating, are you really going to make me celebrate alone?”

Lydia weighs the amount of sugar in a donut against the pleading expression on Stiles’ face. “Fine. Chocolate glazed.”

Stiles orders and drives down to the next window, pays and takes the paper bag the cashier hands him. He balances the bag on his lap and drives around to a small parking lot that faces the street, pulls into a space and shifts the Jeep into park. He takes out her paper-wrapped donut and passes it over to her before picking up one of his and taking a gigantic bite out of it.

Lydia stares down at her donut, icing glistening, and her mouth waters. “I can't remember the last time I had a donut.”

Stiles swallows and lets out a satisfied sigh. “But they're so good.”

Lydia scrapes off a tiny bit of icing and sucks it off her finger. “I'm not supposed to eat sugar.”

Stiles takes another bite and chews, a thoughtful expression on his face, swallows, wipes his mouth. “How many hours a day do you dance?”

“Depends on how much rehearsal I have, plus conditioning and everything? Five to eight hours, depending on the day.”

Stiles nods. “Okay. Then I think it's pretty safe to assume that one donut isn't going to wreck everything.”

She nods in agreement and gives him a tight lipped smile, tearing off a tiny piece and letting it sit on her tongue until it dissolves. She knows he's right, in the grand scheme of things it's meaningless, but it doesn't feel that way. It feels deviant, like she's doing something terrible, like she's sitting in a car plotting a murder instead of eating a pastry. She chews and swallows, wondering how it can matter when she might not get into the company now anyway. 

“Hey,” he says. “Thank you. I really needed this.”

And then suddenly it's worth it, just for the way he's looking at her, like she's so much more than a girl about to have a breakdown over a few grams of sugar, like nothing can really be that terrible when he's sitting right here with her. “You can always call me too,” she says softly.

He ducks his head a little, like he's embarrassed. “Cool, I will, uh, keep that in mind.”

“Good,” she says, lifts the donut to her mouth, and digs her teeth into it.


	20. before the fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all are lovely human beings and I adore you, thank you for coming back here week after week even though I torture you. Trigger warning for eating disorder behavior and general angst.

When [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533514308912) goes downstairs in the morning her mother has already left for HBC’s San Francisco office. She starts a pot of coffee, takes out a carton of eggs and sets them on the counter. Lydia hesitates in front of the stove, thinking _don't do it, don't do it_ , exhales loudly in frustration at her own weakness and picks up her phone. She looks up the nutritional content of a chocolate glazed donut and stands there leaning against the counter, reading the numbers on the screen, her mind doing quick frantic math as panic swells in her chest.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

She puts the eggs back in the fridge.

Even though she's alone her cheeks feel hot, that feeling she had last night in the car coming back - that she's done something terrible, humiliating, feathery wings of shame beating against her heart.

What was she thinking? How did she let herself get so lost in Stiles’ enthusiasm that she forgot who she is, what she is, the kind of stakes she's up against?

She can't blow up her life on the chance that Malia's right and she's lost her potential place in the company she's wanted to dance for since she was three years old. She's Lydia Martin. She always gets what she wants.

She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, rubbing a loose fist against her chest. She'll figure it out, one way or another. She can't lose her focus, not with the showcase only a few weeks away. She can't afford to think like Malia, she can't panic.

She's gotten this far, she isn't giving up now.

She'll get a spot in the company even if she has to walk right into Derek's office and demand it.

When the coffee’s ready she pours herself a mug and stirs in organic coconut milk, carries it over to the living room and curls up in the corner of the couch. She watches the morning news cycle mindlessly as she sips her coffee, putting her phone face down on the coffee table so she isn't tempted to look at the numbers again, just to punish herself, for being weak, for being stupid, for thinking that it doesn't matter.

The showcase is in three weeks, of course it matters. Every single thing she does matters.

She takes a deep breath, tightening her fingers around her mug. Last night was just a slip up, it's not too late to fix it.

She can't break. She won't break.

Once Lydia finishes her coffee she fills up her water bottle and goes upstairs to her room. She changes into a bra and a pair of [leggings](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533514364190), grabs her pointe shoes and her phone and goes into her practice studio. She hooks up her phone to the speakers, starts her Tchaikovsky playlist and walks over to the barre. Her ribs still feel a little tight and stiff so she starts slow as she goes through her pliés, finding her breathing pattern as she moves. She moves on to tendus, dégagés, développés, warming up her legs. She works on pulling her stomach muscles in towards her spine, keeping her hips in alignment, always turning out, toes pointed, everything in her body a single fluid moving piece.

When she's done at the barre she sits on the floor to put on her pointe shoes, changes the music and warms up her feet with quick jumps in the center, ignoring the flash of pain in her side when she lands. She does a few basic jump combinations across the floor, works on her pirouettes, and then starts practicing her piece for the showcase.

She goes over the first section over and over again, working in the mirror, practicing every single facial expression, watching her arms, her hips, her legs, her feet. Once she's satisfied she moves on to the solo she has in the second half of the piece, the one she was having problems with in rehearsal earlier this week. She slows it down so she's going through every element count by count, working out the choreography until she knows every single step and transition, can execute the entire piece smoothly, before going back to the beginning.

She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. _What are you, a virgin?_

She runs her hands down her body, tripping her fingers down her ribs, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hips. She slides her fingers between her thighs, tries to remember what it feels like to be wanted, desired, to move through space oozing sexuality.

How easy it used to be, to make every man in the room want her with a swing of her hips.

Stiles, lying under her on the floor of his living room, staring up at her, lips parted, those big eyes full of wonder, his hands splaying over her legs.

She opens her eyes and stares hard at her reflection, and begins the solo over again.

By the time she's done practicing her legs are shaking and her body is covered in a cold layer of sweat. Lydia takes her pointe shoes off and stumbles into the bathroom, pulls off her clothes and gets into the shower. She turns the water on as hot as she can get it, shivering, leaning back against the cool tiles because the muscles in her legs are trembling. She washes her hair, shaves, and gets out, reaches to wrap a towel around herself and has to rest her elbows on the edge of the sink when her knees give out and black dots explode behind her eyelids.

She waits it out, breathes through the dizziness until it goes away. She moisturizers, blow dries her hair into soft waves, and shuffles down the hall to her room. Lydia changes into a cropped tee shirt and a pair of mint green [leggings](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533515226489), yanks on her slippers, tucks her laptop under her arm and goes back downstairs. She puts her laptop down on the kitchen table and goes over to the fridge, pulls out a Gala apple, shiny and red, and sets it on the cutting board. She slices it into quarters with shaking hands, then eighths, then sixteenths, each piece so thin it looks translucent when she holds it up to the light.

She arranges the apple slices on a plate, carries it over to the table and opens up her reading for her next assignment of her online mythology course, biting into the first apple slice as she begins to read. It's the myth of Icarus, son of Daedalos, the builder of the infamous labyrinth on the island of Crete, imprisoned so the secret of the labyrinth couldn't be revealed.

So they decided to escape, father and son, together. Daedelos, the clever inventor, built winged sandals, feathers held together with wax. And it worked, they flew, freedom sweet in the air until Icarus, exhilarated, forgot his father's warning not to fly too close to the sun. The wax holding the feathers of his sandals melted, poor Icarus plummeted back to earth and drowned in the sea.

Pride comes before the fall, after all.

Lydia sighs, rubbing her temples. It always seems to come down to this.

Falling.

It's so painfully tragic, how that particular human weakness, desire - to fly, to be free, to fully experience life - how deadly it can be, the terrible consequences of wanting _more._

Look at Eve, who took a bite of the apple from the tree of knowledge and all of _humanity_ fell.

Lydia shakes her head, breaking out of her looping train of thought. She stares down at her plate, at the seven slices still arranged against the porcelain.

_Focus._

She moves the rest of the apple over to the kitchen island so it can't distract her and turns back to her laptop.

She dutifully finishes the reading and completes the questions at the end, fills everything out and sends it in. She finishes the apple standing up, eating each slice as slowly as possible. She washes her hands when she's done, feeling distantly pleased with herself, pure, nothing inside of her but coffee and water and a single apple.

Stiles texts her a little before six to inform her that he's picking her up in an hour to go to Scott's. Lydia palms her phone and goes upstairs, takes her clothes off and walks over to her closet to select an outfit. It's finally really warm out, spring is in full swing; after considering a few different dresses Lydia chooses a blue floral print [playsuit](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533514431685), pulls it on and examines herself in her full length mirror.

Her mother had the glass replaced, you'd never have known it was ever broken. Lydia stares down at her left hand, the skin over her knuckles still discolored and jagged from where she cut it. She pivots back and slowly makes a fist with her left hand, draws her arm back. She shifts her weight onto her right foot and punches her left hand forward in slow motion, stopping right before it hits the glass.

_What did you do?_

Lydia sighs and turns away, sits down at her vanity and does her makeup, sprays her hair with salt spray and runs her fingers through it. She checks the time on her phone and puts on her wedges, goes downstairs and picks up her Chloe bag just as her mother walks in the front door.

“Going somewhere?” she asks, setting down her tote bag.

“Just Scott's.”

“Do you need the car?”

“No, Stiles is picking me up.”

Her mother gives her a sly smile. “Is he now?”

Lydia scowls. “We're just friends.”

A friend she kisses every chance she gets, a friend who makes her feel real, like she's special, like she matters, like she can fly.

“If you say so.” Her mother shrugs off her blazer. “Not too late please, alright?”

“We're just going to watch a movie.”

“Okay.” Her mother leans in and kisses her cheek. “Have fun honey. I have a date with the Bachelor and a bottle of Chardonnay.”

Lydia smiles robotically and nods, lets herself out so she can see Stiles as soon as he turns down her street. She hates that she's nervous, her heart hammering against her breastbone, the streetlights blurring against the setting sun as she sinks down onto the top step to wait for him. She can't fight the irrational feeling that she's walking into a trap, wondering again if Scott has said anything to Allison about what happened to Malia, Lydia dissecting a sandwich in front of him, her point-blank refusal to admit that she has a real problem.

How can it be a real problem when it's the only thing keeping Lydia together, focused, her body locked down, in control?

_You are a body._

She has to stay in control.

Girls who lose control end up with broken bones and holes in their heads. 

Stiles shows up a few minutes later, his Jeep cruising down her street and pulling into the driveway as Lydia walks down the sidewalk, opens the passenger door and swings up into the car. “Hey,” she says casually, shutting the door and turning to buckle her seatbelt.

“Hey.” He gives her a slow smile and Lydia suddenly remembers why she ate that donut last night, because if there's anyone she'd fall for it's Stiles - she doesn't know how to say no to him, not when he makes her feel like he’d catch her before she could ever hit the floor.

“Hey,” she says again, lower, and tilts her head, lifts her eyebrows a little, _kiss please_ , all pursed lips and big eyes, desperate for the escape his body always offers her, a way to snap herself out of her own head.

He leans across the console to kiss her, one hand threading in her hair. It makes her lighthearted or maybe it's that she's running on only caffeine and an apple, either way it makes Lydia curls her fingers in the fabric of his burgundy tee shirt, pressing her lips against his and squeezing her eyes shut against the blur of his face so that the only thing she can focus on is his mouth, the harsh sound of his breath, the warmth of his hand when he caresses her cheek.

When he pulls away he looks a little dazed and Lydia leans back in her seat, smug, dizzy on power, at what she can do to him, with just a kiss. She's still in control, she can still make him want her, maybe she's just a body but look at what she can do with it.

Stiles shifts into reverse and backs down her driveway, one arm thrown over the back of her seat as he pulls into her street. “How was your day?”

Lydia watches him drive, his long fingers wrapping around the gear shift as he turns down her street to go to Scott's. “Fine. I had a good practice.”

“Yeah?” He tosses her a smile before turning his eyes back to the street. “You feeling better about that rehearsal?”

She flinches unexpectedly, tearing her gaze away from him to look out the window. It's hard to believe that it was only a few days ago, Peter shouting at her during rehearsal. “I'll do better next time.”

She jumps when she feels his hand on her thigh, heavy and warm. “I'm sure you'll be amazing.”

“Thanks,” she murmurs.

Scott's house isn't that far from Stiles’, a nice normal looking two story house. Stiles parks outside and they cut across the front lawn to climb the steps onto the porch. She walks behind him, a little unsteady, staring directly at his back, the long wishbone of his legs in faded jeans. He opens the door with the confidence of a person who's grown up here, placing one hand lightly on the small of Lydia's back as they cross the threshold into the McCall’s living room.

“Hi!” [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533514485238) pops up from the couch and rushes over to give Lydia a hug. “You look so cute! Come on in, guys! We ordered food already, it should be here soon.”

Lydia can't really do anything except smile, overwhelmed and a little dizzy, and lets Allison lead her over to the couch. Scott's sprawled out on one end, wearing a tee shirt with cut-off sleeves and a pair of black mesh lacrosse shorts. He smiles lazily, his hair pushed back messily from his face. “Hey guys. Drinks are in the kitchen, help yourself.”

Allison sits down next to him and pulls Lydia down so she's squished next to her. Allison loops an arm around Lydia's shoulders and she instantly relaxes, if Allison is in this good a mood it means Scott hasn't told her anything, at least not yet. Lydia breathes out a sigh of relief and leans back against the couch, nodding along to Allison's mindless chatter as Scott turns the tv on.

Stiles disappears into the kitchen and comes back a minute later with a can of Coke in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He sets them both on the coffee table and sinks down onto the couch next to Lydia, there's just enough space for all four of them if they sit like this, hip to hip, Allison half in Scott's lap and Stiles’ long legs dangling off the couch. Scott and Stiles get into a long debate about which movie to watch, some superhero versus a different superhero, Lydia doesn't know, she can't pay attention, sitting anxiously next to Allison wondering what they ordered for dinner.

She follows Allison to the door a few minutes later when the food gets delivered, a huge cardboard bag with _Beacon Hills Grill_ printed on one side. Lydia helps Allison get plates and silverware from the kitchen and sits down on the floor in front of the couch to spread everything out on the coffee table.

Allison pulls out four styrofoam boxes, pulls the lid off of one and peeks inside, passes it across Lydia over to Stiles. “Bacon burger.”

“Yes!” Stiles crows, snatching up a handful of ketchup packets for his curly fries, nestled in tinfoil against the bun.

Scott gets the other burger and Allison has a grilled BLT. She picks up a stack of napkins in one hand and passes the last box to Lydia. “I got you a grilled chicken sandwich.”

“Thanks,” Lydia murmurs, her heart clenching painfully in her chest as she takes it from Allison and pops open the lid.

The bread is toasted a deep golden brown, everything smells so good that Lydia starts salivating, so ravenous she's almost nauseous. She peels up the top piece of bread to examine the contents underneath: grilled chicken, lettuce, tomato, sliced avocado, and a thin white layer spread over the inside of the bread. Mayonnaise. Lydia swallows, her hands shaking as she examine the other slice of bread to find it soaking in the same condiment.

She's suddenly overwhelmed with paranoia. Allison knows she hates mayo; it's disgusting, an absolute waste of calories. Did she forget that when she placed the order or did she know what she was doing, did she order it on purpose, thinking Lydia wouldn't see it, wouldn't notice? 

Crazy, Lydia thinks. That's crazy. Allison wouldn't try and trick her like that. Would she?

“What's wrong?” Allison asks, when she realizes Lydia is the only one who isn't eating.

“This has mayo on it.” Lydia tries to keep her tone level but she can still hear it, the underlying accusation in her voice.

Allison shrugs and passes her a few napkins. “So wipe it off.”

Lydia snatches up the napkins and gets to work instead of arguing that no amount scraping will be capable of removing _all_ of the mayonnaise because Stiles is sitting next to her, so Lydia can't make a fuss, because then he'd know, and it's one thing to sit across a table from Scott pleading with her to eat something but Lydia doesn't think she can handle getting it from Stiles.

He can't know. He won't understand, he’ll think she's stupid, or crazy, pathetic, and then he won't want her anymore.

Besides, it's not like she has a _real_ problem, it's not like she's one of those girls who's completely lost control, who doesn't eat at all, who lets her body deteriorate into a fragile cage of bones.

Lydia scrapes as much as she can off with the napkin, pretending that she doesn't see the look Scott shoots her when he leans across Allison to pick up the remote and start the movie. The lights are off in the living room, it's starting to go dark as the sun begins to set, the tv glowing as the movie begins. It's Batman, or one of the Batmans, Lydia wasn't paying attention earlier when Scott and Stiles picked it out and anyway she's too absorbed with dissecting her sandwich to care much.

Next to her Stiles has already finished his burger and fries and is sitting on the opposite end of the couch from Scott, arms stretched along the back, his legs parted. Lydia leans back until she's sitting in between them, one half of the sandwich in her hand and a napkin spread out over her lap. She takes tiny bites, ignoring the way her throat tightens every time she swallows, like her body is physically resisting it. 

By the time she finishes it she feels exhausted, like the mere stress of making herself eat has worn her out. She leans against Stiles’ left leg and when he doesn't do anything she tilts her head down until it's resting on his knee. After a moment his hand comes to the top of her head and begins to stroke, fingers running through her hair. Lydia sighs in delight at the feeling, tipping her chin up to see his face. Stiles smiles and bends down to give her a kiss before leaning back, wrapping some of her hair around his wrist. 

She gives up on the second half of her sandwich, leaves it right there on the plate. If Allison asks she'll tell her she'll bring it home.

Stiles trails his fingers under her hair to her neck. Lydia sighs, warmth sliding all the way down to her stomach. It's almost enough to make dinner not matter, but then she remembers how she felt this morning, weak and ashamed of herself. 

She doesn't want to feel that again. It's like the way it felt to be flat on the floor with a broken rib, the air smacked out of her, mouth open wide in shock, a helpless broken girl.

Lydia watches the movie mindlessly, letting herself be soothed by Stiles’ fingers trailing up and down her neck, occasionally sliding back into her hair. Allison is back on the couch with Scott; Lydia gets the distinct impression that they're sneaking kisses from the way Allison occasionally giggles and murmurs something to Scott under her breath. Lydia could get up and sit with everyone else but she feels good on the floor, safe, there's nowhere to fall down here.

Eventually she has to go to the bathroom; Allison points down the hallway and Lydia gets up, instantly lightheaded, crossing the room and going into the dark hallway on shaking legs. The bathroom is at the end of the short hall, Lydia flicks on the light and shuts the door. She uses the toilet, flushes and washes her hands, staring at her face in the mirror. Her skin is pale under her foundation, it makes her rose colored lipstick look a little garish. She sighs and finger combs her hair, pinches her cheeks to get a little color back in her face, turns out the light and goes back out into the hallway.

Electric blue eyes and white teeth shine in the darkness.

Lydia falls to the floor, breathless, her entire body numb with fear, her nightmare come to life, teeth baring against her flesh, and someone is screaming, she covers her ears and curls over, forehead pressed against the hardwood.

“Lydia!” Someone bends over her, warm hands cup her face and gently pull her up to sit with her legs folded under herself. “Lydia, what's wrong, what happened?”

Stiles.

She gasps, tears rolling down her cheeks as she whips her head around, but the hallway light is on now and the eyes are gone, there's no one here but them. She covers her mouth, little panicked sobs working their way out, and falls into Stiles’ chest as he puts his arms around her.

“Lydia!” Allison runs into the hallway and skids to a stop, Scott right behind her. “Oh my god, what happened?”

Lydia squeezes her eyes shut to block Allison out, clinging to Stiles’ tee shirt, so sure of what she saw, that Peter was here, in this hallway, waiting for her.

“I don't know.” Stiles’ voice is high and panicked. “I don't know what happened, I just found her like this, she hasn't said anything!”

Lydia shakes and shakes, Allison's voice floating over her head, to fast and high for any of the words to catch, and Stiles is talking over her and it's too much, she gasps for air as Scott crouches down next to Stiles and spreads his hand over his shoulder. “Why don't you and Allison get Lydia a drink of water?”

Stiles immediately looks affronted and opens his mouth to argue, but Scott looks right at her and says, “We’ll be okay for a minute, right Lydia?”

She looks from Scott to Stiles, who looks terrified, and up to Allison, who's standing behind everyone, her eyes full of tears.

“Yeah,” she whispers hoarsely, and offers Stiles a frail smile. “Go, we’ll be okay.”

Stiles still looks conflicted, like he's too afraid to let go of her, but Allison bends down and whispers something too low for Lydia to catch. He finally nods and runs his hands over her spine one more time before standing up and walking out with Allison.

Once they're gone Scott sits down in front of her and picks up her hands. Lydia twitches but Scott just starts rubbing them gently between his own. “Did you pass out?” he asks quietly.

“No,” she whispers back.

“Are you _sure?_ ”

“I don't think so.”

Scott frowns. “So what happened?”

She blinks back tears. “I don't know.”

“Did you eat today?”

She presses her lips together and looks away; he makes a frustrated noise and pulls on her hands a little to force her attention back to him. 

“I'm sorry,” she whispers, because she doesn't know what else to say.

“Lydia.” His voice is low and soft. “I really don't want to say this but if you don't stop I'm going to have to do something.”

She goes rigid. “What are you talking about?”

He's still rubbing her hands, trying to get some warmth back in her fingers. “You need to stop doing this or you're really going to hurt yourself. I'm serious, I'll tell my mom about it if I have to.”

She tries to pull her hands away but Scott catches her by the wrists. “If she tells Derek he could pull me from the showcase,” she hisses.

Scott gives her a look that makes her want to scream, all soft pity and round eyes. “Maybe he should.”

“He can't pull me,” she insists. “I'm in the biggest piece of the entire showcase, it's Peter Hale. I have to dance, Scott.”

“Is that the only thing that matters to you?” His voice is sharp. “Lydia, the showcase isn't worth this, nothing is worth this!”

“How would you know?” she snarls. “What have you ever done that's come _close_ to this? You have no idea, the kinds of things it takes. The sacrifices I've made. Look at me, I'm going to be a principal dancer for the Hale Ballet Company one day, so either help me or get the hell out my way!”

Scott releases her hands, a shocked look on his face. “Lydia, I _am_ trying to help you. This is me, helping you.”

“It sure doesn't feel like it,” she mutters.

“Lydia, if you think we're all going to sit back and watch you put yourself in danger - if you think _Stiles_ is going to sit back and watch you put yourself in danger - then you're delusional.”

“I'm not crazy,” she snaps.

Scott rubs his eyes. “That's not what I meant.”

“Hey.” Stiles is back, holding a glass of water, Allison hovering over his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

Lydia reaches up and takes the glass from him, swallows down a few sips of cold water, and shoves it into Scott's hands, unable to look at him. “I want to go home,” she says, her voice cracking.

“Okay.” Stiles holds his hands out to her and Lydia lets him haul her to her feet.

Allison sniffs and throws her arms around her, pressing her face into Lydia's hair. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Shh, I'm fine, I'm sorry I scared you,” she murmurs.

“Call me later?”

“Okay.” Lydia kisses her cheek and wriggles out of Allison's hold. 

Stiles slides one arm across her shoulders, heavy and solid for her to lean against. “Come on,” he says gently. “I'll drive you home.”

She lets Stiles lead her through the house and out the front door, back down the steps and down the lawn to the Jeep. He opens the passenger side for her and waits until she has her seatbelt on before he shuts the door, jogs around the front of the car and gets into the driver's seat. Stiles starts the car and turns on the headlights, checks his mirrors and pulls onto the street, silent, a muscle in his jaw twitching and his fingers aggressively slapping the steering wheel to the quiet beat of whatever's playing on the radio.

Lydia leans her cheek against the cold glass of the window and shuts her eyes. She's too tired to feel humiliated right now but she still feels small and stupid, a silly little girl who cries wolf when there's nothing there to be afraid of.

Nothing that she can explain, anyway.

When they get to her house Stiles pulls into the driveway and shifts into park. Lydia undoes her seatbelt and so does he but he doesn't move to get out of the car so she doesn't either, ice running up her spine when he turns to look at her and she can see how glassy his eyes are.

“Are you sick?” His voice cracks on the last word.

Something inside her snaps, like a string breaking. “Hey, _no_ ” she whispers fiercely. “Of course not.”

Stiles glares at her. “You're lying.”

She blinks in surprise, panic clawing its way up her throat. “Stiles, I'm not sick, okay? Really, I'm fine.”

“Fine?” he spits out. “What happened back at Scott's, that was not fine Lydia, people who are fine don't do that.”

She presses her lips together, arms crossed tightly over her chest, blinking rapidly so she doesn't cry. “I don't know what you want me to say.”

“Do you think I'm stupid?” He's not yelling, not exactly, but his voice is ragged and harsh. “You almost passed out in the parking lot that time you came to my game. You always order the healthiest thing on the menu and usually you don't even finish it. You don't eat anything when we go to the movies, or anywhere, if you think you can get away with it, you didn't even eat your own birthday cake! Do you really think that I wouldn't figure it out?”

She curls her fingertips into her palms, nails digging into her skin. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

He gives her an incredulous look, his eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline. “Are you serious right now? Lydia, come on, you know exactly what I'm talking about!”

“I told you, I'm in training.”

“Bullshit!” Stiles declares emphatically. “I know I haven't known you as long as Scott and Allison have but I know you Lydia, I know that underneath that perfect ice queen exterior there's an actual person in there with a soul, and like, _feelings_ , so quit being so goddamn stubborn and talk to me already!”

Her throat burns as her eyes fill up with tears. “You're going to think I'm crazy.”

“Hey.” Stiles reaches his hand out to her palm up. “There's literally nothing you could say to me that would make me think that, okay?”

Stiles, standing in front of the diner, holding her to him when she was cold. Standing in the kitchen at the lake house with his arms around her, her head on his chest. Holding her hands and coaxing her out of the Jeep the night he picked her up from Jungle, reassuring her over and over again that he wouldn't let her fall.

Stiles has always caught her. He's never given her a reason not to trust him.

But she doesn't know if she can trust him with this.

“Lydia.” He's still sitting there, hand outstretched, giving her this soft coaxing look, like all she has to do is grab his hand and everything will magically be fixed. “I'm your friend, remember? Before anything else. And” -

“Friends talk to friends,” she whispers thickly.

“Yeah.” His voice is so soft, like he's trying not to spook her. “So talk to me. Please.”

Maybe she can just tell him some things. Maybe she can be brave enough to try.

Lydia reaches out with her left hand and threads their fingers together, staring straight through the windshield at her house, the porch light left on for her, because she can't say it and look at him at the same time.

She doesn't want to see it, the moment he realizes that the person she is inside is messy and ugly and weak.

“Sometimes,” she starts, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “I have problems eating.”

She waits for him to say something dismissive or sarcastic, like _I've noticed_ , or, _no shit_ , but he just squeezes her hand and waits for her to continue.

“I don't - do it all the time,” she says haltingly. “Mostly if I'm stressed, I guess, or I had a bad rehearsal or something.” Her cheeks feel hot, it's almost unbearably humiliating, to admit to it out loud. “It makes me feel better. Not eating.”

Stiles strokes his thumb over the back of her hand. “Better from what?”

“What?” Lydia turns her head to glance at him. He's relaxed back in his seat, expression soft, a little concerned, but not angry, or shocked, or even surprised.

Because he already knew.

Of course he already knows. It's Stiles. No one had to tell him, he figured it out himself.

“People don't starve themselves for no reason,” he says, sounding a little cautious. “Something must have happened.”

Lydia represses a shudder. “Yeah,” she admits softly. “Something happened.”

“Tell me about it?”

She swallows a thick lump in her throat. “Last spring, when I was a level seven, something happened in a partnering class. We were doing a lift and my pas de deux partner dropped me.”

Stiles suddenly looks horrified. “That was you?”

She stiffens in her seat. “You _knew?_ ”

“No, I just - Scott mentioned it last year, after it happened, he said one of Allison's friends had gotten dropped in a class and had to go to the ER. I didn't know it was you.”

“Oh,” she whispers. She feels stupid now, that she hadn't considered that possibility. Of course Scott would tell Stiles, they're best friends.

“What happened?” he asks quietly. “Did you get hurt?”

Hurt. It's so absurd, that every horrific thing that's happened to her breaks down to that one thing - she got hurt.

She hurts.

“Yeah.” Her eyes sting and she has to tip her head back a little, furiously blinking away tears. “I cracked a rib and tore some of the cartilage around it.”

“That sucks,” he says sympathetically. 

“Yeah,” she agrees. “It was an accident, I think.”

“You _think_?” Stiles instantly looks suspicious. “What do you mean, you _think?"_

She shifts around in her seat. “It's complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

She sighs and tips her head back against the headrest. “Jackson wasn't just my pas de deux partner, he was my boyfriend. Well, ex boyfriend I guess.”

“Wait, which one is it?”

She swallows back a wave of nausea. “We broke up the night before it happened.”

“Lydia.” Stiles looks very serious, like she's just confessed to being the victim of a terrible crime. “Did he drop you on purpose?”

“I don't think so,” she murmurs.

“You don't _think_ so?”

“We were both exhausted that day,” she explains. “We got into a fight the night before, he broke up with me. I didn't… neither of us handled it very well.”

“What does that mean?”

“Dancing together and _being_ together - some partners make it, but for us - we got too competitive with each other. I think we forgot that we were supposed to be on the same team. We were always pushing each other, we argued a lot. We fought about how much I was practicing.”

“He thought you were practicing too much?”

She shakes her head. “He thought I wasn't making enough time for him. I was a good dancer but I probably wasn't a very good girlfriend.” She snorts to herself. “Not that he was either. I don't know, it was our first real relationship, and it was hard, being in the same space all the time, working together. I guess we couldn't really handle it. Anyway, he dumped me.”

“I'm sorry,” Stiles says, quiet and earnest.

“I didn't take it very well,” she admits. “He was - not very nice about it. We were up half the night screaming at each other. And then when we had class the next day we weren't focused. We were doing a lift where I sit on his shoulders and then…” She has to take a deep breath, trying not to shiver at the memory. “There's this move we were practicing. A fish dive. I drop down towards the floor, head first, and he's supposed to catch me around my ribs. I think we messed up the timing, maybe I dropped down a half-second early, or he was a second late, I don't know, when I went down he wasn't ready. I know he tried to catch me but…”

“You fell.”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to him?”

“Nothing,” she says flatly. “His parents are wealthy, they made a donation to the school and the whole thing went away. Besides, he swore it was an accident.”

“You aren't still dancing with him, right?”

“No,” she assures him. “When I came back for level eight in the fall they switched us.”

“”Well that's something,” he mutters, his voice tight. “I'm sorry that happened to you, it must have been terrible.”

“I got lucky,” she says softly. “I could've broken more than just a rib.”

Stiles winces. “How long does it take to recover from that?”

“Long. I had to take the rest of the semester off, I could barely walk. I couldn't do anything. Then I rehabbed all of summer and started class again last fall.”

“Is it okay now?”

She rubs her nose quickly with the back of her free hand. “Mostly.”

Stiles frowns. “What does that mean?”

She shrugs. “Mostly it's fine, occasionally it's not.”

“So what, you just dance through it even when it's bothering you?”

“Mhmm.”

“That sounds safe.” There it is, that sharp sarcastic edge he's been holding back from all night. 

“I'm keeping an eye on it,” she mutters. 

Stiles is jiggling his legs up and down. “Does Scott know?”

“Yeah,” she sighs, not sure if he’ll be relieved or angry that Scott didn't tell him.

“Good,” Stiles mutters. “At least he's at HSB most days if something happens.”

Scott, picking her up off the floor of the studio while everyone around her screamed and gasped and cried, whispering to her that it was going to be okay, that he had her, that he wasn't going to let her go. Scott, who carried her all the way down to the ambulance, drove her and Malia to the hospital on Thursday night, without even expecting a thank you in return, because that's just the kind of person he is.

“Yeah.” She has to cover her face for a second as she chokes down a sob, a few stray tears sliding down her cheeks. “It's okay. Nothing's going to happen to me.”

He inhales sharply. “You don't know that.”

“It's under control,” she says tiredly.

“Lydia - are you even supposed to be dancing like this?”

“You just don't understand.” It takes everything in her to keep her voice from shaking. “This is what's what it's like, being a dancer. It's fine, I know what I'm doing.”

He makes a frustrated noise. “Okay, remember when we talked about you not being allowed to act like it doesn't matter if you get hurt? Kind of what I meant here.”

“I'm not going to get hurt.”

“But you could,” he insists.

“I won't,” she argues back.

“You can't know that! What, are you psychic now?”

“No,” she says acidly. “I’m not psychic. I just know what I'm doing.”

“You aren't eating, so no, you obviously have no fucking idea what you're doing!” he shouts.

She rips her hand away from his. “I want to go inside now.”

He exhales loudly, puffing out his cheeks. “You can't just run away from this.”

“I'm tired,” she says stiffly. “I don't want to talk about this anymore.”

He rubs his eyes for a second. “Can we at least acknowledge that there's a serious problem here?”

“Fine,” she snaps. “Problem acknowledged. May I be excused now?”

Stiles shakes his head disbelievingly but he leans away and opens his door. “I'll walk you up.”

Lydia gets out of the car and meets him at the top of the driveway. He doesn't hold her hand, he doesn't even look at her, but he walks her all the way to her front door and waits while she gets it unlocked.

“Hey,” he says quietly, shoulders hunched, hands in his back pockets. “I know I'm not your boyfriend, but if I was I'd tell you that it's okay to ask for help.”

She's stunned speechless, Lydia stands there with her back against the door, frozen. Stiles bends down and drops a kiss on her forehead before turning around and heading down the walk towards the Jeep. Something in her chest hurts, that snapped-string feeling, like one of the only things tethering her to reality is about to break.

“Stiles!” 

He stops right there on the cobblestone and turns around, and she's not frozen anymore; Lydia runs down the steps and flies to him, goes up on her tiptoes and throws her arms around his neck. “Don't be mad,” she pleads, sliding her fingers into his hair. “Please don't be mad.”

“Hey, Lydia, it's okay.” He lowers his forehead down to touch hers. “I'm not mad. I'm like, _seriously_ concerned, and I think we should at least come up with a plan or something, because I'm not sure that you realize that this is an unsustainable situation, which is honestly terrifying and we're not done talking about that but I'm not _mad_ at you, okay? You're - you're sick, you have a problem. It's not your fault, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispers even though she doesn't really believe him, and shuts her eyes, revels in the feeling of having his arms around her, safe from falling with his body holding her like he still cares about her, like she hadn't ruined everything.

“Lydia,” he breathes, his hands running up and down her back. “Can I - there has to be something I can do. What can I do?”

Lydia looks up at him, feeling like she might start crying again. “Can't you just be here for me?”

He makes a soft subvocal sound and closes his eyes for a second. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

*

_The wolf is snarling at the window, dirty paws pushing up against the glass. Lydia cries out, defenseless in her bed, glowing eyes the only light in the darkness and then the wolf howls and hurls itself through the window and the glass shatters, she scream and cowers on the bed and -_

[Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533514700552) gasps awake, her hands curled into fists, breath coming in short harsh pants as she looks wildly around her bedroom for the intruder but the window pane is intact, no broken glass anywhere, there's no one in the room but her. Lydia tiptoes out of bed and makes sure the window is shut and locked, walks over to her bedroom door and locks that too, unrolls her yoga mat over the floor next to her bed and lies down on her back.

She does every variation of crunches that she can think of, until her abs burn and the little bruises over her spine ache, but it doesn't calm her down, her body still thrumming with adrenaline that makes her nauseous. It's nearly four in the morning, she needs to go back to sleep, she needs to rest so she can get in a good practice tomorrow but the idea of sleeping right now seems impossible, when her window is right there, a shiny sheet of glass that wouldn't take much to break.

She goes over to her bookshelf and stops, considering the height of the shelf and the window. Lydia pushes the side of the bookshelf until it's right under the window, grabs a stack of Harry Potter hardbacks and lines them up on top of the bookshelf, dominoes style. If someone tries to come in through the window they’ll knock the books down.

It seems like such a good idea, the way most manic thoughts are in the middle of the night, without daylight and common sense, so Lydia keeps going, she pulls every book she owns and makes a path of them from the bottom of the bookshelf to her bed. She takes all the leftover books and lines them up on the edge of the bed and climbs over them to the middle of the mattress, a wall of books protecting her. She gets under the covers and grabs the nearest book, lays it over her chest and breaths like that, feeling the solid weight of it over her heart, like a shield of armor. 

She lies like that in the dark, fingers gripping the cover, watching the window, until eventually her grip relaxes and she drifts off to sleep.

She wakes up a few hours later to her phone ringing and bright sunlight streaming into her room. Lydia stretches, accidentally sending her copy of Anne of Green Gables sliding to the floor as she reaches for her phone and swipes to answer it, Allison's face filling up the screen.

“Hey,” Lydia mumbles, rubbing her eyes, a steady aching pressure throbbing in her temples.

“Hey.” Allison's voice is soft, a little tense. “We're all going to the cafe for breakfast, okay?”

“Okay…?”

“Stiles is on his way to pick you up.”

“Right _now?_ ” Lydia stumbles out of bed, reaching up with her free hand to yank the elastic out of her braid.

“Yeah.”

“Thanks for the warning,” she mutters, hissing when she stubs her toe on a copy of Quantum Mechanics: The Theoretical Minimum.

Allison sighs loudly into the phone. “Scott and I will meet you there, okay?”

“Okay,” Lydia says in defeat, and hangs up.

She goes to the bathroom to race through brushing her teeth and washing her face, quickly applies moisturizer and brushes her hair, runs back to her room and changes into a printed [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533514762742). She does fast makeup, foundation, mascara, lip gloss, ties on her sandals and makes it downstairs just as Stiles honks the horn from where he's pulling into the driveway outside.

“Hey Mom, I'm going to brunch with Allison!” Lydia shouts, grabs her Chloe bag, and goes outside without waiting for a reply.

When she gets into the Jeep Stiles is in the driver's seat with rumpled hair, his face creased like he woke up ten minutes ago, purple half moons under his eyes. He's wearing the same pair of jeans as last night and a hunter green tee shirt Lydia is sure belongs to Scott. She doesn't know what to do with herself suddenly, buckling her seatbelt with numb fingers.

“Hey,” he says, his voice scratchy, a little hoarse. “I need to tell you something before we go.”

She reaches down under the hem of her dress and pinches her thigh. _Focus_. “What?”

Stiles rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Last night, after we said goodbye, I went back to Scott’s and he and Allison and I talked about everything for awhile. I just thought you should know, before we meet up with them.”

Lydia swallows back bile. “If you're planning on doing an intervention on me I'm getting out of this car right now.”

“What? No, no, really, Allison does just want to get brunch, we thought it would be good, you know, like, a fresh start, since everyone knows everything now, no secrets anymore. No pretending.”

She doesn't understand, how him knowing everything feels like the most terrible humiliation and also total, complete relief at the same time, that she doesn't have to lie anymore, play pretend, that she's fine, that everything's okay, that she isn't hurting.

(And okay, not _everything_ , not Peter or Malia or the wolf from her nightmare, or that the only thing that makes her feel calm anymore is not eating and she doesn't think she can stop). 

Some things are too private to ever speak out loud.

“Lydia? Do you have an opinion on that or anything?”

She twists a stray wave around her finger. “How did you know?”

“What?”

“About me. How did you figure it out?”

“Oh. Well, um, the night we met and we all went out to dinner? You only got a salad and you barely ate any of it, but I didn't know you then so I didn't read too much into it. And then, remember the night of Brett's party?”

Lydia winces, the last thing she remembers about that night is crying on the bathroom floor with Allison. “Not really.”

“Oh. You ah, mentioned that you hadn't had dinner when I was driving you back and that's why you were so drunk. Which I chalked up to being a coincidence but then when we drove to the lake house for your birthday Allison was giving you shit for not eating lunch, and well, three's a pattern, you know? And then you established a good amount of data points the rest of that weekend to support my theory that you had, an, um, you know” -

“So why didn't you say anything?” She cuts him off before he can say the words, there's only so much humiliation she can endure.

Stiles fidgets, hands twisting in his lap. “I guess I was hoping that if you trusted me enough you'd tell me yourself.”

“Oh,” she murmurs. She can't even muster up enough energy to feel ashamed anymore.

She just feels empty.

“Are you okay?” he asks tentatively. “I know that this uh, is clearly not the way you wanted things to play out, and I don't want you to feel like you're under a microscope and we're all judging you or anything.”

“Aren't you?” she bites out. 

Stiles huffs out a breath. “I'm not going to apologize for caring about you.”

“That's what you call the three of you sitting around talking about me?” she snaps before she can stop herself. “ _Caring_ about me?”

“Yeah, when you stay up with your friends until three in the morning trying to figure out how you can help your other friend, yeah, I think that's exactly what you call it!”

She presses her lips together, his words hitting her right in the chest. What was it she said to him that night in front of the diner, when he held her for the first time?

_I don't do this a lot. The whole… caring about people thing._

And then Stiles had to go ahead and care about her anyway, and make her care back.

Because she does care. She cares what he thinks about her and she cares that he's upset about this and she cares that if she isn't terribly careful he could ruin everything for her.

“Okay,” she exhales. “I'm sorry.”

He screws up his face. “You don't have to apologize, I just… you can't sit here and expect me not to do anything, okay?”

“Okay,” she surrenders, and tells herself that it doesn't matter, that he knows, that he clearly thinks he can fix this for her.

As long as she can still dance that's the only thing that really matters.

“Are we okay?” Stiles asks quietly. “You and me?”

“You're still here, aren't you?”

Stiles shifts the car into reverse before reaching for her hand. “Yeah. I'm still here.”

“Then I guess we're okay.”

He doesn't say anything back but he holds her hand over the gear shift the whole way to the cafe. He has to drive almost two blocks past it to find a parking spot, he parallel parks and Lydia gets out of the car, waits on the sidewalk for him to get out and lock the Jeep. He walks around the front of the car and slides his hand into hers; it's a cold comfort, the warmth of his skin, the steadiness of his body walking next to her as he leads her inside the cafe, when she's so exposed like this, all of her carefully constructed lies beginning to crumble.

Scott and [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533514822391) are already here, waiting in line for a table. Scott's got on his Beacon Hills lacrosse hoodie and the same shorts he was wearing last night; Allison's in a fresh outfit but her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, stray tendrils curling around her neck, and she isn't wearing any makeup. Lydia can see it on her face the moment Allison spots them, her big brown eyes soft and sad - Allison knows. All the little things Lydia's been hiding, everything she made Scott promise not to tell - she knows.

“Hey,” Allison murmurs, reaching for a hug, but Lydia twists away, pulling her hand out of Stiles’ hold.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she announces, and hurries away before Allison can offer to go with her.

The restroom is empty, Lydia leans against the sink and stares at her reflection in the mirror. Pale skin, big eyes, lips shiny with pink gloss. She reaches up and trails her fingers over her exposed collarbone, thinking of how she can possibly get away with not eating when all three of them know now, have spent half the night talking about her, laid out her dirty secrets to be examined, judged, and ruled unacceptable.

Okay. So she’ll eat breakfast with them. Fine. She can do that.

Whatever it takes to keep Scott from telling his mom, or Allison throwing a total hysterical fit, or Stiles deciding that she really isn't worth it, with all of her secrets and lies.

The only thing that matters is being able to dance. She can placate her friends for one morning, eat an omelet, pretend like she understands their concern.

It's not their fault they don't understand what she's capable of, how far her body can be pushed, how high she can fly.

Because she's special, isn't she? Chosen by Peter Hale because she's one of the best dancers at the Hale School of Ballet, for one of the biggest pieces of his career, Laura’s successor, the future star of the company, if she can just make it through the showcase, shine the way she was always meant to shine, prove to Derek that she deserves that spot in the company, that she's willing to fight for it.

Lydia smooths her hands over her hair, purses her lips and lifts her chin. She's going to be a star, she can't break now. She can't go back out there and cry, admit that she's lost, afraid, that she doesn't know what she's doing anymore, that she's in danger of collapsing into a black hole.

_Focus._

She pastes on a shiny plastic smile, pushes through the door, and walks back to her friends, her heartbeat thumping in her ears like a warning.

Stars can fall.


	21. the ballad of laura hale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think a lot of you have sensed things have been heading in this direction but this a rock bottom kind of chapter. I'm giving it a hard trigger warning for eating disorder related content so please read responsibly, whatever that means to you. A gentle reminder for anyone who needs it before we begin - the things that make you special are inside of you. Your heart, your brain, the art you create, your accomplishments in school and work, the words you speak, the love you give - THAT'S what matters. Not a number on a size tag or a scale, okay? Okay. Good talk everyone.
> 
> Fair warning, this is 12k so if you start this late at night you should grab some tissues and chocolate ice cream first. If you can stick this one out you'll get a big reward in the next update, I promise! Hang in there my darlings, I'll take care of you in the end.

“Oh my god,” [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533514920996) gasps on Monday morning, when she and [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533514978710) are sitting on the floor of Studio C putting on their ballet slippers before technique starts.

Lydia looks up and follows Allison's line of sight towards the door. Malia has just come in, dressed in [street clothes](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533515061701) instead of her class leotard, the last two fingers of her right hand in a splint.

“What do you think happened?” Allison whispers.

Apparently Scott didn't tell Allison every last secret after all. 

Lydia watches Malia walk across the studio and sit down on the floor with her back against the mirror, crossing her legs, looking a little tired but otherwise alright.

“No idea,” Lydia murmurs, gripping the hem of her tee shirt and peeling it up over her head. It feels too private, to explain what happened, broken glass and broken bones and how sometimes it just never stops and you have to do something, break something, _make_ it stop.

Marin claps her hands and everyone except Malia gets up and walks to the barre. “Good morning! Mademoiselle Tate, welcome back.”

Malia grins sheepishly and Marin’s expression slips, just for a second, into something that looks like sympathy, before waving at the accompanist. “Pliés, let's go.”

The music starts and everyone drops their left hand onto the barre, turning out from their hips as they bring their heels together in first position. Lydia floats through the barre portion of class, watching herself surreptitiously in the mirror. She didn't eat breakfast this morning but she had two cups of coffee before she went to the gym to warm up and she feels good, buzzing with caffeine, moving along obediently to Marin’s every command.

They do an adagio when they get off the barre, then a petit allegro, small jumps. Lydia watches herself fly up into the air as she pushes off the floor, practically weightless. She smiles at her reflection, pleased, feeling lighter than air, nothing but bone and muscle and raw determination.

When class is over Lydia takes off her slippers, puts on socks and her Nikes to keep her feet warm and follows the rest of the girls out into the hallway. Malia catches her gaze and tilts her head down the hall. “Get a drink with me?”

“Sure,” Lydia says casually, hitching her bag over her shoulder, and follows Malia down the hallway over to the vending machines.

“Sorry I didn't text you or anything over the weekend.” Malia digs a few quarters out of her bag and drops them into the machine. “Derek took my phone away.”

Lydia leans against the wall as Malia pushes a few buttons and a bottle of orange juice falls. “So what happened after Scott and I left the hospital?”

Malia squats down and retrieves her juice with her left hand. “Can you open this for me?”

“Sure.” Lydia takes the bottle from her and cracks the cap, hating that her mouth waters as she does it. She pushes the bottle into Malia's hands and she tilts her head back to take a long sip. 

Malia sighs when she swallows and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Derek sent Scott out and then he… I thought he was gonna yell at me but he just stood there for awhile, looking at me like I killed his puppy or something. And then he told me I was grounded for the weekend, took away my phone, and when they discharged me we went out for pizza.”

Lydia's mouth drops open. “Seriously? That's it?”

Malia takes another sip and licks a stray drop off her bottom lip. “I think he felt bad for me. He was… I don't know… he said I should have come to him before.” She exhales loudly. “He's my cousin but we've never really been close, even though technically he's my guardian it's not like he really raised me. I think…”

“What?” Lydia prompts softly.

“He told me I could stop, if I really wanted to. Ballet. He said he wasn't going to sit back and watch another girl get hurt.”

Lydia stiffens at the allusion to Laura. “Are you?”

“I don't know,” Malia says hesitantly. “I’m going to think about it. I asked him to drop me from the showcase.”

“Malia,” Lydia sighs.

“I know, okay? I just - I can't do it, especially not with this.” Malia holds up her hand. “I just - for once in my life, I need something to be my choice.”

“Did you ask him about the deal he made with Peter? About the spot in the company?”

Malia shakes her head. “Sorry. I…” she blinks rapidly. “I think I'm afraid to know the answer.” She laughs dryly, sounding a little choked up. “I think after this though Derek's definitely going to consider other girls. I'm going to be pretty useless for awhile.”

Lydia looks down at Malia’s splinted hand, feeling a little nauseous, remembering the sound it made when she slammed it into the wall. “I still can't believe you did that.”

Malia give her a wry smile. “I'm a Hale, Lydia. We're all a little reckless.”

*

“Whenever you're ready, darling.” Peter nods shortly and starts the music, standing in the corner of the practice studio on Tuesday night.

[Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533515476672) nods back and gets into her opening pose of her solo, Aiden standing a few feet behind her, watching her. She closes her eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath, blocking everything out - Aiden, Peter, the music, the beat of her heart pounding in her ears.

She's not going to break. She can do this.

She thinks about Stiles holding her hand, Stiles’ lips brushing against hers, his broad chest and his long legs and his soft amber eyes that always look at her will nothing less than complete adoration and respect. She thinks about the way he reacts when she tosses her hair, when she parts her lips, when she curls her fingers around his.

She slips into the feeling like a second skin, sexuality dripping from the tips of her fingers and the way down to her toes, and begins to dance. She leaps high into the air, throws her head back, arches her back and points her toes. She smiles, she smirks, she licks her lips and grins salaciously as she sets up for her fouettes. She lifts her leg to the side and begins to spin, head whipping around as she spots.

“Well look at that!” Peter shouts, sounding delighted. “Lydia decided to come to work today! Brava, good girl, finally, some emotion!”

Lydia spins and spins, his words lighting a fire inside her as she whips her body around, every turn perfection, so high from adrenaline and his praise and nothing but coffee in her system that she feels like she's flying and she never wants to come back down.

*

When [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533515641504) gets back to her room after doing an hour on the elliptical on Wednesday afternoon Allison is sitting on the foot of her bed in a long sleeved [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533515686488) and boots, her hair down and wavy, big eyes amplified by mascara. “Hey,” she says brightly. “Stiles is picking me and Scott up for dinner, you should come with us. I think Isaac and Malia are coming too.”

“I have to take a shower,” Lydia says cautiously, unsure if Allison is giving her an invitation or an order.

“He's not coming for another twenty minutes, you have time,” Allison says firmly. 

An order then. Lydia drops her bag down on the floor and nods, kicks off her Nikes and escapes into the bathroom. She takes a quick shower, towels off and takes her hair out of its bun, sprays dry shampoo at the roots and brushes it out. She pulls her hair back into a loose French braid and does her makeup, hangs up her towel and goes into her room, aware of Allison's eyes on her, cataloging every movement. She puts on clean underwear and a bra and digs through her closet for something to wear. She finds a blue floral [shirt dress](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533515749023) and pulls it on carefully over her head so she doesn't mess up her braid, ties on her wedges and puts her phone and wallet into her Chloe bag.

“Ready?” Allison shoulders her bag and stands up, smoothing out the skirt of her dress.

“Where are we going?” Lydia asks as she follows Allison out of their room, locking the door and slipping her keys into her bag.

“That Italian place we went to that one time with Scott and Stiles. Is that okay?” Allison shoots her an anxious look as they walk towards the elevator. “They have a lot of stuff, you don't have to get like, a pizza.”

Lydia sighs, her stomach tightening. She hasn't eaten since lunch, when she has a salad loaded with tofu, chickpeas, avocado, and feta cheese, all under Allison's watchful eye. “I wasn't planning on it.”

Allison stabs the down button with the heel of her hand. “Do you want to talk about anything before we go?”

Lydia knows what Allison means. She wants to talk about brunch on Sunday, when Lydia sat in a booth at the cafe methodically eating her way through her omelet and refused to talk to anyone. She wants to talk about Lydia sneaking out of their room extra early every morning this week to warm up alone, all the secrets Scott kept for her, the fact that she's getting smaller and sharper and Allison can't do anything to stop her.

“Nope,” Lydia says tightly, and steps into the elevator.

Scott's waiting for them in the lobby along with Isaac and [Malia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533515815052) when they get out. Allison makes that little Scott-specific sigh and skips over to him, kisses him for a good five seconds and slides her arm around his waist as she spins around so they can start heading towards the front entrance. Lydia hangs back so she can walk out with Isaac and Malia instead, who are both standing behind Scott and Allison making faces at their backs. Lydia rolls her eyes in commiseration and Malia giggles, linking her good hand through Lydia's as they walk outside.

Stiles is parked at the curb waiting for them. Scott, Allison, Isaac and Malia all pile up in the backseat, moving around until they've got the boys sitting on either end and the girls squished together in the middle with Allison half in Scott's lap. Lydia gets into the passenger seat and shuts the door, glancing sideways at Stiles. She hasn't seen him since he dropped her off after brunch on Sunday with an awkward goodbye and the merest suggestion of a kiss.

Lydia had practically ran into her house, shame- faced, because it was easier to hide than to talk to him about what happened on Saturday night.

He's sitting behind the wheel in a pair of grey jeans and the white and navy baseball tee he wore on their first and only real date, the sleeves rolled up to display sinewy forearms. The memory hits her like a punch in the chest, and she wonders if he wore that shirt on purpose, just for her, or maybe he doesn't even remember, maybe he just wore the shirt because it's a shirt and he's not intentionally fucking with her at all.

“Hey,” he murmurs in a low voice, shooting her an uncertain look, like he doesn't know what the protocol is for how to act when they're in front of four of their friends.

“Hey.” Lydia decides for him, leans across the seat to kiss his cheek politely before pulling back and buckling her seatbelt.

A little muscle in his jaw twitches as he pulls away from the curb and swings the Jeep around the driveway. Everyone in the backseat is talking but Lydia doesn't hear any of it because she's too distracted by Stiles, watching him out of the corner of her eye while pretending very hard that she doesn't see him at all. Her ears are full of hollow echoes of laughter and the music playing on the radio, the sharp occasional interjection from Stiles as he drives.

Everyone else is already having fun; she's surrounded by five other people, people she likes, most of the time anyway, people she trusts as much she's capable of trusting, people she knows she's safe with, but she can't feel any of that because there's a war inside her head and the voices won't stop screaming.

All she can think about is the look on Stiles’ face Saturday night, like she had the power to break his heart and he’d let her. 

Allison says something from the backseat and Lydia hears Scott laugh in response.

Scott, sitting next to her in his mother's car when he dropped her off at HSB the night Malia broke her hand. _I won't let him go through something like that again._

The subtext being: Lydia better get better, or get going.

When they get to the restaurant Stiles squeezes the Jeep into a parking space on the street and everyone spills out onto the sidewalk. Scott and Allison lead the way inside, followed closely by Isaac and Malia. Lydia jumps when Stiles tries to hold her hand, he pulls away a little and shoots her a concerned look.

“Okay?” he whispers, holding the front door open for her before following her inside the restaurant.

The last time they were here he didn't know about her, he hadn't figured it out yet. They follow their friends to a table with Stiles’ hand hovering just over the small of her back and Lydia wonders if he’ll ever look at her the way he did back then, like she was fascinating, awe-inspiring, special.

Now he looks at her like she's a girl who's about to break and take everyone down in the process.

Because she will, if she doesn't stop. She's smart enough to know that, she doesn't need a lecture from Scott to know that it wouldn't be right to put Stiles through something like that.

She could ruin him.

Scott and Allison find an open booth towards the back and they all shuffle around, working out seating arrangements. Isaac and Malia both go in first on either side, sitting with their shoulders against the wall, Allison slides in next to Isaac so naturally Scott sits down next to her. Stiles shrugs and gets in next to Malia, leaving Lydia hovering at the edge of the table.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she announces.

“I can go with you,” Allison offers, looking like she's about to crawl right over Scott to get to her.

“I'm not a toddler, I don't need you to hold my hand while I pee.” Lydia turns on her heel and stalks away before she can asses the damage her words just caused.

There's a single private bathroom in the back hallway. Lydia locks herself in and presses her forehead against the door. She takes a deep breath and counts to ten, exhales and pushes herself into the middle of the small room. There's a full length mirror against the wall, she stands in front of it and stares at her face, reaches up to push her fingertips against her cheekbones. She tries to think of something good, something that will make her feel strong, something that will get her through this.

Peter in her rehearsal last night, finally proud of her, showering her with praise. The _relief_ , that she's doing something right, that everything she's been putting herself through has been worth it, to dance this well, to impress him, to finally become a star.

If she dances this well in the showcase Derek will have to take her. She'll make him take her.

She stares at her eyes in the mirror, trying to remember who she is. The girl who gets what she wants. She tries to tap into Aiden's kind of confidence, all bravado and power.

_Lydia and I can do anything._

She can do anything.

She just has to get through this fucking dinner without bringing the inquisition down on her own head. 

Lydia purses her lips at her reflection and slowly brings them up into a shiny smile, all white teeth and big eyes, just like a wolf, a frightened girl hiding behind a mask, the face of a liar, and goes back to the table. 

She only gets a minute to look at the menu before the waitress comes. Allison generously jumps in and suggests they start with her and work their way around to Lydia, and Lydia flashes her a grateful smile before staring down at her menu in a panic.

Allison said she didn't have to get a pizza but that doesn't mean she can get away with ordering a salad, if she tried Allison would probably reach across the table and stab Lydia with her fork. She frantically skims the entrees and when it's her turn she orders the chicken Romano over whole wheat linguine and hands her menu over to the waitress like its an exam she's sure she's failed.

There's a basket of breadsticks on the table that get passed around, Stiles breaks one in half and holds it out to her. “For old time’s sake?”

He sounds so hopeful and when Lydia looks up at him she instantly regrets it - this is exactly why she told him they couldn't be together, but he stayed anyway, his friendship a sudden persistent force in her life that avalanched into something deeper, and somewhere along the way she started to doubt herself, but it's like realizing it all over again -

She has to dance and that's what matters, it's what always mattered. And Stiles makes her feel things she isn't ready to feel, Stiles makes her want things she can't have, when she's with him she forgets that the only thing that makes her special is the thing that's killing her, and she doesn't know how to stop.

She can't stop. Not when she's this close to having the only thing she's ever wanted.

But then Stiles blinks at her and everything just vanishes - her underlying panic, her absolute conviction in her own behavior, it all just fades until the only thing that exists is him: the warmth she feels when he looks at her, the tug in her chest that demands she holds his gaze, the way he sees her, _really_ sees her, and has never treated her with anything less than absolute kindness and respect.

He deserves so much better than this.

She tilts her head demurely and reaches out to take it. “Alright,” she agrees.

Allison nudges the dish of olive oil in her direction and Lydia pointedly ignores it. She breaks off tiny pieces of the breadstick at a time, sucking on each one until it dissolves in her mouth. It keeps her completely occupied until the food comes, plates of margarita pizzas, Allison's fettuccine alfredo, and Lydia's pasta.

She inhales sharply through her nose as she spreads her napkin over her lap and picks up her fork with her left hand. Lydia finds a section of linguine at the edge of her plate and scrapes off all the sauce before twirling a single noodle around her fork and eating it. She only lets herself eat a few of them before moving on to the chicken. It's already cut into neat little cubes, she scoops up a piece with her fork, tapping her right fingers against her thigh as she chews.

She isn't entirely surprised when she feels Stiles’ fingers slide down her wrist to capture her hand. Lydia gives into it, letting him pull her hand into his lap so it's resting on his thigh. Instantly everything slows down, the touch of his fingers drawing shapes on her palm hypnotic. She leans into him, just a little, enough for their shoulders to brush.

She can't deny the way it calms her down, the feeling of his body against his. She's so selfish with him, she can't make herself stop, her hand safely captured in his and his body solid and warm against her. Desire, that fatal weakness, her inability to stop wanting him even though she can't have him, not really.

Not like this, with every bite of food sitting heavy in her stomach, numbers running through her head, her attention completely split between the heavy task of eating and Stiles sitting next to her, eating pizza with his free hand and laughing with Scott about something that happened at lacrosse practice while Isaac and Allison describe their latest rehearsal to Malia.

By the time the check comes Lydia's managed to eat a respectable two thirds of her entree and every nerve in her body is strung tight, bitterness in the back of her throat. She feels weak, dirty, like all her hard work over the last couple of days has been ruined. She can't even focus enough to handle splitting up the bill, after a moment Stiles reaches over her for it and works everything out by hand with a pen. When everyone's paid up Lydia practically leaps out of the booth, pulling Stiles along with her. He squeezes her hand and she's already weak so she gives in and lets him put his arm around her shoulders, lets out a shuddering breath as his hand rubs her upper arm.

They all walk back out to the car and Lydia waits for everyone to climb over each other to get into the backseat before she climbs up into the Jeep, finally letting go of Stiles so he can close the door for her and go around to get in the driver's seat. Lydia looks out the window the whole drive back to school, tuning everything out except for the blur of lights in the dark and the heaviness in her stomach and the warm weight of Stiles’ hand on her thigh.

When they get back to school Stiles parks in the driveway and everyone gets out of the car. Isaac and Malia say goodbye to everyone, Isaac gives Lydia and Allison quick hugs and does one of those fist bump/arm slap things with Scott and Stiles while Malia waves with her good hand, looking a little shy, and walks back inside with Isaac. Allison and Scott drift down the sidewalk, bodies completely intertwined, doing their usual drawn out goodbye complete with open mouthed kissing and ass grabbing. Lydia leans against the stone wall by the curb and Stiles steps up so he's only a few inches away from her, boxing her in even though his hands are down by his sides.

“Hey.” His voice is low, Scott and Allison are too far away to hear him. “How are you doing?”

Lydia steels herself and deliberately shrugs. “Fine. I had a really good rehearsal last night.”

“That's great,” he says mildly. “And how are you?”

She frowns, confused. “I just told you, I'm fine.”

His face works through a series of expressions before settling on bewilderment. “Are you serious?”

“What?”

“Lydia!”

“ _What?_ ”

“Oh my god!” he yelps, looking only minorly chastised when she glares at him. “This thing that you do, this thing where you pretend like you're fine when we both know you're the farthest thing from it? That's bullshit and I'm not doing that with you.”

“I'm not doing anything,” she mutters.

“Look, you can't take it back, okay? Saturday night, you and me, right there in that car? Life changing confessions, revealing deep dark secrets? That was real.”

“Believe me, I'm aware.” She even sneers, because she's so far past self-conscious she's gone into ice queen mode, willing to say anything to shut him down so she doesn't have to do this with him.

Stiles narrows his eyes at her. “You don't have to like it but you don't get to pretend like nothing happened. If you don't want to tell me how you really are then say that, but don't lie to me.”

“I don't want to tell you,” she snaps.

He stumbles back like she's actually hit him. “Oh.”

Lydia realizes immediately that she's fucked up, that he didn't really expect her to call that bluff, that she's just hurt his feelings and she's thrown back to a cold March afternoon, standing on the sidewalk with him, _I could do complicated_ , emphatically shutting him down because maybe he can do complicated but she can't, not when everything else in her life is so complicated that she's on the verge of falling apart.

He blinks a few times and Lydia watches, horrified, as he reaches up and wipes his eyes very quickly with the back of his hand. “If you don't want to talk to me then I guess I don't really have a reason to be here.”

“Stiles,” she starts, reaching for him, but he shakes his head, backing away from her as he wraps his arms defensively over his stomach.

“Don't,” he spits out. “You dropped this bomb on me and now you don't want to talk about it? That's so fucking unfair Lydia. I can't do this if you won't talk to me.”

“Wait, Stiles, I'm sorry,” she pleads weakly, because she cracks so easy for him, her cheeks heating in shame, that she can't do this one simple thing for him, when he's done so many things for her.

He lets out a bitter sounding chuckle. “I'm sure you are.”

Stiles turns around and walks away from her and it's like that string in her chest snaps, watching him get into the Jeep without looking back at her once, making her chest seize up like all the oxygen has been squeezed out of it. Some noise of disbelief manages to slide out of her and Lydia gasps, one hand pressing against her chest, eyes slipping shut just for a moment before she exhales slowly and steels herself, swallowing down her tears.

She doesn't need him anyway, she tells herself.

He makes her weak.

She can't afford to be weak, she can't break down. Not now.

She stumbles down the sidewalk; up ahead Scott and Allison kiss one final time before saying goodbye and Lydia watches them break apart, Allison going over to wait for her by the front doors as Scott turns around and starts walking to the Jeep. Lydia doesn't want to look at him, shell shocked and properly ashamed, but Scott stops in front of her before she can dodge him, forcing her to either confront him or attempt to get around him.

Lydia folds her arms across her chest and glares. She doesn't have the energy for him too, not when she feels like this. “What do you want, McCall?”

Scott's eyes have just enough pity in them to make her feel defensive. “I was serious, you know.”

“About what?”

“Telling my mom.” Scott jams his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “You've got until Friday.”

She blinks at him, his words failing to coalesce into a sentence that makes any sense. “What?”

“Look, I didn't want to do this, okay? But at some point we had to do something.”

Lydia looks past him to where Allison is waiting for her. “Was this her idea?”

“It doesn't matter whose idea it was. You've got until the end of the week.”

“To do what, exactly?” Her voice is cold and sharp, but Scott doesn't flinch.

“It's over Lydia.” He sounds annoyingly patient, like he's trying to explain something that she isn't capable of truly understanding. “We all know. My mom's going to know. You can't control this and I know that's really hard for you, but can't you just trust that we're doing this because we care about you?”

She's so tired of this, of everyone insisting on rescuing her from what she needs to make herself better, tougher, stronger, _special_.

She's so tired.

“I thought you were my friend,” she spits, and watches with cool detachment as Scott blanches, his mouth dropping open in disbelief.

She brushes shoulders with him as she walks away, poison flooding her veins, cruelty pooling on her tongue. She walks up to Allison and then goes right past her through the glass doors, forcing Allison to catch up to her in the lobby.

“Hey, wait!” Allison exclaims, catching her by the elbow. “What just happened?”

“I didn't ask you to save me,” Lydia hisses.

“Too bad,” Allison immediately retorts, and they don't say another word to each other until they get back to their room.

Lydia perches on the edge of her bed to take off her wedges, watching Allison kick off her boots with an unnecessary amount of force. “I'm going to take a shower,” Lydia announces.

Allison shoots her a bemused glance. “You already took a shower.”

“I didn't have time to wash my hair before,” she says, and escapes into the bathroom before Allison can stop her.

She locks the door and turns on the light along with the fan, whirring to life with a low mechanical roar. She peels off her dress, unhooks her bra and steps out of her underwear, bundles everything up and drops her clothes into the hamper. She leans over the bathtub to turn the water on but she doesn't get in, not yet anyway. She wipes off her makeup and washes her face, refusing to look at her body below the collarbone, her full stomach overpowering everything else in her head - Stiles walking away from her, Scott's threats, Allison's quiet anger.

She washes her hands thoroughly with liquid soap and walks over to the toilet, staring down at it in apprehension. She hates doing this, it's disgusting, it makes her feel gross, but she has to tonight, she knows if she doesn't she won't be able to sleep, she'll be up all night doing sit ups to stave off the anxiety of a full stomach and she can't handle that right now, not when she's so tired and heartsick and secretly terrified that Scott really was being serious and everything she's worked so hard for is about to be taken away from her.

She just wants to be empty again so she can go to sleep, forget tonight ever happened, put Stiles and his terrible compassion into a box to be opened later when she isn't naked and on her knees emptying herself of everything in her stomach.

She does her best to be quiet about it, the fan and the water running enough to cover the noises so Allison doesn't hear her. When she's done she gets up on shaking legs and washes her hands, grabs a handful of toilet paper and wipes off the toilet seat, the floor, every little thing that didn't make it all the way into the toilet, and flushes. In the mirror her eyes are watery and rimmed with pink, snot dripping down her nose, her lips spit slick and red. 

“You're supposed to be pretty,” she whispers to her reflection, and blows her nose, gets the mouthwash out from under the sink and rinses away the bitterness.

By the time she gets into the shower the water’s gone cold. Lydia tips her head back into the spray and lets it soak her hair, water dripping down her face and mixing with the tears that finally come. She doesn't get out until she's shivering all over, the tips of her fingers turning blue as she wraps a towel around herself, like a dead girl walking.

*

In the morning Lydia’s alarm goes off at 6:45am. She shuts it off and freezes, watching Allison flop around for a moment before collapsing back into sleep, her face pressed into her pillow. Lydia gets up and tiptoes to the chest of drawers at the foot of her bed, grabs her [clothes](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533515896085) and goes into the bathroom to change. She pulls on her leotard and a pair of leggings, yanks her cropped sweatshirt over her head before finally facing her reflection in the mirror.

Her skin is terribly pale, her lips are dry and cracked and there are a few thin squiggly red lines under her right eye, she must have broken a blood vessel last night. Shit.

Lydia washes her face and pats on moisturizer, lets it sink into her skin while she twists her hair up into a tight bun. She applies a layer of foundation and blush to fix her pallor, paints on concealer to cover up the lines under her eye, and curls her eyelashes. Her head is pounding, she shakes three tablets of ibuprofen into her hand and swallows them with tap water. She leans against the sink and lets her head hang down for a moment, eyes welling up with tears when she remembers the look on Stiles’ face right before he turned around and walked away from her last night.

She sniffs loudly and gives herself a good hard stare in the mirror before she leaves the bathroom. She sits down on the floor in the dark and laces up her Nikes, picks up her dance bag and quietly leaves the room, slowly closing the door so it doesn't squeak and locks Allison in.

The cafeteria opens at seven, when Lydia walks in she's the first person there. She gets a cup of coffee and stirs in a few drops of half and half, walks over to the bread selection and stands there for a long time before she selects a blueberry scone, warm and buttery and sparkling with little sugar crystals. She gets her ID scanned and walks over to a small table by the windows. She takes her phone out and hooks up her headphones, puts in her earbuds and starts an episode of This American Life. She drinks her coffee and leaves the scone on her tray, testing her resolve, her inner strength.

After ten minutes she picks it up and dunks it into her coffee, sucks on the corner of it until it gets soft, and puts it back down on the plate. She drinks more of her coffee, occasionally sucking on the scone again, just to get a taste, flooding her taste buds with the memory of sugar before washing it away with coffee.

When her mug is empty Lydia gets up, disposing of the scone on her way out of the cafeteria. She goes down to the gym and gets on the treadmill, walks while breathing through her headache, the ache in her throat every time she swallows. She has to stop after ten minutes and sit down on the floor to sip some water, the edges of her vision going fuzzy. She drops her head to her knees and breathes through it, and when she feels a little more stable she gets back on the treadmill and walks until it's a quarter to nine. 

She leaves the gym and takes the stairs up to the first floor. She walks down the hallway towards the elevator and curses to herself when [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533515978954) pops up from the opposite direction, coming from the cafeteria. As soon as Allison gets sight of her she lifts her chin and begins to stalk down the hallway. Lydia reaches up and takes her earbuds out, resigned, as she walks over to the elevator to meet Allison.

“Where the hell have you been?” Allison smacks the _up_ button with the heel of her hand. “You missed breakfast.”

“I came down earlier before I warmed up.”

Allison doesn't even look at her. “That is such bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.” Allison pinches the bridge of her nose. “Whatever.”

The elevator comes and they go up to the fourth floor for technique, Allison's lips pressed together in one tight line. Lydia rubs the back of her neck and shuts her eyes until they have to get out, following Allison down the hallway and inside Studio C. They walk along the wall and drop their bags down on the floor, pull off their leggings and tops and get on their canvas slippers. Allison's face is pinched, she won't even look at Lydia as she stretches out her legs and starts flexing and pointing her feet.

Lydia's head throbs and she curls her fingertips into her palms, breathes in and exhales along to a silence count of ten.

So Allison's mad at her. Fine, whatever, Lydia can handle it. Allison just doesn't get it, she never gets it, she doesn't know what it's like to have two voices in her head constantly pulling her in opposite directions - one voice telling her to eat, to smile, to let herself fall into Stiles’ open arms, and the other one screaming at her to starve, to bleed, to bend and twist herself into something better, stronger, a prima.

Lydia's going to be a star one day and if Allison doesn't understand what it takes to get there it's not Lydia's fault.

Let her be mad, let Scott tell his mom, let Stiles yell and plead and walk away.

She doesn't need them, she can't afford that kind of simple human weakness for connection right now anyway. She's a genius, she knows what she's doing and she knows what she has to sacrifice.

It's worth it. It'll be worth it, when she's up on stage dancing, making everyone fall in love with her, proving to Derek with every drop of her sweat that she deserves that spot in the company, she's earned it, no one wants it more than her, and she'll do whatever she has to do to get it.

Lydia moves through Marin’s barre section of class on autopilot, her head aching, legs a little shaky. She thinks of nothing but executing each combination perfectly, watching her body in the mirror, following the lines of her torso and legs as she stretches and bends. After an hour they go to the floor to work on pirouettes, Marin walking back in front of the mirror as they do doubles on each side along to the steady pound of the piano keys. The walls spin as Lydia turns and she breathes shallowly, dizzy, focusing on her spot on the wall as she spins.

Marin stops in front of her and Lydia keeps going along with the other girls, pushing down through her foot as she rises on demi pointe, sucking her stomach in, keeping her arms soft and rounded, toe pointed behind her knee, her head the last thing to whip around as she spots, the studio a sickening blur of white paint and glass mirrors.

“What are you doing?” Marin asks her, but she doesn't say stop and the music is still going so Lydia keeps turning, glancing at Marin as she comes down into fourth position between pirouettes.

“Attack it!” Marin commands. “Come on Lydia, we've talked about this, you have to pull up!”

Lydia goes up for another pirouette and loses her center, coming down a quarter turn early and biting the inside of her cheek as she switches feet. Marin frowns, her hands coming together to clap along with her words. “Attack it! Attack it! What are you afraid of? Come on, pull up!”

I'm not afraid, Lydia thinks angrily, her cheeks going hot, and turns and turns while Marin yells along to the music until the combination is over.

When class is finished Lydia can't look at anyone, a tight little knot in her chest at her failure. She can dance better than that, she can be better than that. She _should_ be better than that.

She pulls off her slippers and goes out into the hallway with the other girls, sick with shame, and puts her headphones in, lies down on the floor and stretches while the rest of the girls snack on a bag of cashews Cora's brought to share.

They go back in for pointe and nothing is better; Lydia can't focus, she can't even get her body to listen to her. She makes stupid, little mistakes, lands on the wrong foot during a petit allegro, starts in the wrong direction for a grand allegro, gets behind the count of the music when they do pique turns across the floor. When class is finally over she snatches up her bag and leaves, changes out of her pointe shoes in the hallway and takes the back stairs down to the gym to avoid everyone, disappearing into the stairwell before Allison's even made it out of the studio.

The gym is empty, everyone's at lunch. Lydia gets on the treadmill and walks along to another podcast episode, until the residual shame of her performance this morning has been burned off. She gulps down water and slings her bag over her shoulder, walks back up to the first floor and takes the elevator up to her room. She peels off her clothes in the bathroom and takes a quick shower, changes into a clean leotard and tights and fixes her makeup.

She goes back out to her room and pulls a long loose knit [sweater](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533516030215) over her head and laces up her Nikes, refills her water bottle and shrugs her dance bag over her shoulder. She takes the stairs down a floor and walks over to Studio D for partnering, watching the way the shadows flicker on the wall, her head buzzing, her empty stomach cramping but she ignores it, she ignores everything but her feet taking one slow step after the other until she reaches the studio and goes inside.

Somehow she's the last one here, everyone else in level eight is already in the center ready to work. Lydia peels her sweater up over her head and takes off her Nikes, tapes a few toes that have blisters on them before slipping on her toe pads and carefully tying the satin ribbons of her pointe shoes. She gets up and hurries over to join Aiden in the center as Jennifer comes in, waving to the accompanist.

“What's up with you today?” Aiden hisses at her.

Lydia pushes back a stray hair that's escaped her bun. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she whispers.

He gives her a scathing glance. “You look like shit and you weren't at lunch, something’s going on.”

“Alright, let's begin with an adagio.” Jennifer claps her hands and Lydia raises an eyebrow at Aiden before turning her attention to the front of the studio. “Ladies, from fifth croise devant, left in front.”

All the girls shift so they're facing the right downstage corner of the studio, sliding the heels of their left feet against the toes of their right feet and the boys all shuffle in behind their partners. Everyone looks at Jennifer, waiting for her to continue.

“Arabesque with the right, then bring that leg in for a pirouette en dedans.”

Lydia points her right leg behind herself, marking the arabesque, and brings it up into passé to hold for the pirouette, Aiden hovering behind her.

“Right foot comes front into fifth and we’ll bourré back, ladies reaching back for their partner with the left arm, and then close to fifth. Attitude with the left, promenade around and back to the front.”

Lydia goes up en pointe and reaches back with her left hand, Aiden lightly holds her fingers and walks backwards, Lydia moving with him as she skims back across the floor and comes down into fifth. She lifts her left leg back into a low attitude and holds her right hand out to Aiden, she rises up en pointe and he slowly turns her around for the promenade until they're facing the front of the studio again.

“Right leg closes behind in fifth,” Jennifer instructs. “Double pirouette en dendans, open the leg out a la second at the end, triple pirouette, open it up and hold for a moment, then close to fifth. Two echappes, close to fifth, and that's it. Got it?”

Everyone nods dutifully and moves back across the floor to set up in two lines. Lydia and Aiden end up in the back line closest to stage right behind Erica and Boyd. Lydia closes her feet into fifth and brings her arms down, blinking rapidly as the walls of the studio flicker at the edges of her vision. The music starts and Lydia flutters her arms, counting in her head, _five, six seven, eight_.

She rises up en pointe and lifts her right leg behind herself into arabesque, Aiden's hand light on the small of her back. She bends her right leg and brings it into passé, her right toes pressing just above her left knee. His hands come to her waist and she does a slow pirouette, arms curved over her head. When she completes the turn she lowers her right leg down, still en pointe, and reaches back for Aiden's hand. She bourrés backwards, her eyes unable to focus, the piano suddenly painfully loud. When the eight count is finished Lydia lifts her leg back for the promenade, staring at Aiden’s white tee shirt, the pain in her head reaching a fever pitch as he turns her around and she closes into fifth.

She does the double pirouette with Aiden's hands on her waist and opens her right leg out to the side, her reflection in the mirror nothing but a blur. She pulls her leg back in for the triple but on the third revolution she teeters off her pointe and Aiden has to grip her sides as she pitches into him, her head screaming as her vision finally blurs out.

“Catch me,” she slurs, everything suddenly feeling very strange, like time has slowed almost to a full stop, and her knees buckle and then

she

starts 

to

fall.

Aiden lunges down and catches her by the back of her neck right before her head smashes into the floor, his other hand hooking around her waist to haul her up, holding her to his chest so her feet dangle an inch off the floor. “Lydia,” he whisper-hisses, and shakes her, one hand patting her cheek.

“Did they see?” she mumbles into his chest.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “Walk, _now_.” 

Aiden drags her to the doorway of the studio, the tips of her pointe shoes skimming across the floor. He takes her out into the hallway and lowers her down to sit. Lydia collapses onto the floor, everything a blur of grey carpet and white walls as she curls over, tucking her arms under her head. Aiden hovers over her, his big brown eyes narrowed down to slits. “Don't move,” he orders.

He disappears back into the studio and comes out a minute later, both of their bags slung over his shoulder and her Nikes dangling from his hands. Aiden sits down on the floor next to her and pulls her feet into his lap to untie the ribbons of her pointe shoes, and Lydia feels so weak she can't do anything other than lie there and watch him. 

“What did you tell Jennifer?” she whispers as he takes off her toe pads for her and puts them into her bag.

Aiden picks up her bare feet, his hands so warm on her cold skin that it almost hurts, and guides them into her Nikes, pulls the laces tight and knots them. “Don't worry about it. Can you walk?”

She stares blankly at him, her vision still unfocused, the floor the only thing that feels solid. Aiden sighs and kneels in front of her, slides one of his hands under her head and pushes her up to sit before curling his fingers around her wrists and hauling her to her feet. The hallway spins and Lydia falls back against the wall with a thunk, reaching out to grip the fabric of his white tee shirt.

Aiden cups his hands over her shoulders to keep her propped up, leaning over her so the only thing she can see is his face. “Goddamnit,” he says in a low voice. “Why didn't you just tell me the truth?”

She blinks heavily at him, he sounds angry and she doesn't have the energy to fight with him. “I'm sorry.”

He tips his head back and lets out a long sigh. “Come on. Put your arms around my neck.”

Lydia reaches up and Aiden slides one arm under her knees to pick her up, his other arm wrapping under her shoulders to hold her against his chest. Lydia presses her face into his shoulder as Aiden starts to walk down the hallway towards the elevator and she's too tired to ask where they're going so she shuts her eyes, lets him carry her into the elevator and ride down to the first floor. He goes left out of the hallway and she's too weak to argue, she can't do anything except curl in tighter against his chest as everything buzzes around her.

When he walks into Nurse McCall’s office she jumps up from her chair, making Lydia's eyes fly open as the chair legs squeak against the floor. “What happened?”

“She passed out in the middle of a combination,” Aiden says flatly.

Lydia stares up at him, a sour taste in her mouth at his betrayal. “I didn't,” she argues weakly, struggling to get down. “Not really.”

“Yes you did,” he says hotly, setting her down on her feet. “She did.”

Lydia pushes away from him even as the room begins to spin. “I'm fine.”

“Sit down,” Nurse McCall snaps, and grabs her by the elbow, hauling her into the nearest chair and pushing her into it. “Thank you Aiden, you can go back to class.”

Lydia watches him go, her heart sinking, the reality of the past ten minutes starting to slam into her. Nurse McCall leans against her desk and folds her arms across her chest. “Did you eat today?”

Lydia thinks about that morning Derek kicked her out of class and she had to wait in the hallway for him on the floor in front of his office.

Sometimes there's nothing left to do but surrender.

She presses her lips together and looks away, pulling her feet up on the chair and wrapping her arms around her shins. Nurse McCall walks over to the mini fridge and pulls out a bottle, pours something into a paper cup and carries it over to her. “Drink.”

“What is it?”

Nurse McCall gives her an incredulous look. “Orange juice.”

Lydia wants to refuse it but no one says no to Nurse McCall if they know what's good for them. She takes the paper cup and does it like a shot, tilting her head back and tossing it down. The juice burns her raw throat as she swallows and she coughs into her elbow, her eyes watering. Nurse McCall sighs and takes the empty paper cup, tosses it into the garbage.

“Alright, let's take a look at you,” she announces.

Lydia sits still and lets her take her pulse, feel her forehead, listen to her heart. “Are you still lightheaded?” Nurse McCall asks. “Ears ringing? Blurry vision?”

Lydia nods shortly and stares down at her knees, because she's weak and she almost fell.

She promised herself she wasn't going to break and she still ended up here, so weak she can't fight back, she can't even stand.

She failed. She's a failure.

Nurse McCall sighs. “You know I'm going to have to talk to Marin about this.”

Lydia doesn't have a response. What is there to say, when the only thing she has is about to be taken away from her? They'll never let her dance in the showcase now, not after this. 

She watches Nurse McCall open a desk drawer and hold up two cookies wrapped in plastic. “Oatmeal raisin or chocolate chip?”

Lydia gives her a disbelieving look and Nurse McCall just shrugs. “Oatmeal it is then.” She peels the plastic wrapper off and holds the cookie out. “Eat.”

Lydia takes it with numb fingers. “All of it?”

“Yep.”

She blinks back a hot wave of tears but she brings it to her mouth and takes a tiny bite, chews for ten counts and swallows. She eats the whole thing that way while Nurse McCall just stands there and watches her, like Lydia is a terribly untrustworthy child. When she finishes Nurse McCall actually makes her open her mouth wide and stick out her tongue to prove she isn't storing any food in her cheeks to spit out later, which so humiliating Lydia almost starts crying for real.

“Okay,” Nurse McCall says. “Good job.”

Lydia sniff delicately, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand. “So can I go now?”

“ Absolutely not,” Nurse McCall says. “You're staying right here where I can keep an eye on you.”

She leads Lydia to an alcove in the back of the office; there's a cot pushed against the wall with crisp white hospital sheets. “You need to rest,” Nurse McCall says. “You can go when it's dinner time.”

Lydia sinks down on the cot and nods, goaded into silent acceptance. Nurse McCall’s mouth twists to the side and to Lydia's surprise she bends down and kisses her forehead. “Everything's going to be alright,” she says in soothing voice that's so maternal it makes Lydia ache. “You lie down and take a nap, okay?”

“Okay.” Lydia whispers. 

She reaches down and pulls her sweater out of her bag, yanks it over her head and takes off her Nikes. She lies down on the cot and pulls her knees in towards her chest; her jaw aches and her throat is sore, and there's a hot throbbing pulse in her temples. Nurse McCall gets a thin blue blanket out of a cabinet and lays it over her, pats her shoulder and walks back over to her desk. Lydia turns her face into the pillow, hands coming up to the sides of her head to brace against the pain, and lets exhaustion roll over her as she drifts off to sleep.

*

Lydia wakes up in a cold sweat in an unfamiliar bed to the steady scratching sound of a pen against paper. Scott's sitting on the foot of the cot with a textbook propped open next to him on a chair, scribbling in the notebook he has spread over his thighs. When he realizes she's awake he gives her a gentle smile and caps his pen. “Hey, how are you feeling?”

She blinks at him, reaching up to rub her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“Mom asked me to keep an eye on you,” he explains. “You've been sleeping for awhile.”

It takes her brain a minute to come back online and then suddenly she's crying, turning her face into the pillow to hide from him as it all comes back to her - she fell, she got caught, she's going to be punished and probably pulled from the showcase.

“Lydia.” Scott wraps his fingers around her ankle. “Come on, it's okay.”

“Aren't you going to say it?” she croaks. “You told me so.”

Scott sighs and the cot sink as he crawls up the mattress to stretch out next to her. “I don't think there's anything I could say that would make you feel worse than you already do right now.”

He gets a tissue for her and pushes it into her hands, Lydia wipes her face and drops it into the little wastebasket on the floor next to the cot. Scott pulls his phone out of his pocket and glances at her. “I'm going to text Allison, okay?”

“Why?” Her voice comes out scratchy.

“‘Cause it's dinner time, Mom says you're not allowed to do meals by yourself anymore.”

Her skin feels tacky with dried sweat and she's still in her leotard. “I need to shower first.”

“Okay.” Scott taps something out on his phone. “That's fine, I'll take you up to your room.”

Lydia forces herself to sit up and presses her hand against her forehead. “I don't need you to babysit me.”

“Lydia.” Scott reaches out and lays his hand softly over her forearm. “You could _die_ , you get that, right?”

“I'm not going to die,” she responds automatically, reaching down to pick up her Nikes.

“But you _could_ ,” he argues. “This isn't a game, what you're doing is really dangerous.”

Lydia puts her feet into her shoes and tightens the laces, thinking about Laura Hale, her beautiful slim body, every bone visible under milk white skin, Laura driving into the woods with a gun in her lap, Laura holding it to her head and pulling the trigger. “I know that.”

“So you're going to stop then,” Scott says tentatively. “Right?”

She knots her laces and stretches out her legs. “Do I have a choice?”

Scott gives her a strange look, like she's said something that's scared him. “Come on,” he says softly, rolling off the cot. He packs up his backpack and shrugs it on before slinging the strap of her dance bag over his chest. “Allison's waiting.”

Lydia lets Scott walk her out of the nurse’s office and down the first floor to the elevator with one hand lightly resting against the small of her back, like he's worried she's going to fall again. They take the elevator up to the fourth floor and when the doors slide open [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533516104486) is standing in the hallway waiting for them. 

“Hey,” Scott greets her, getting out of the elevator with Lydia and leaning over to give Allison a quick kiss. He transfers Lydia's bag to Allison's outstretched arms and twists around to pull a sheath of papers out of his backpack. “You just have to fill out all the boxes and sign it when she's done.”

“Okay.” Allison flips briefly through the papers and tucks them under her arm. “Thanks for bringing her up.”

“Sure.” Scott pats Lydia's shoulder and suddenly she's eleven years old again, getting briskly passed between her mother and father, back when her dad made an effort with visitation.

Allison kisses Scott again and takes Lydia by the wrist. “Love you, call you when I'm done later?”

“Okay, love you too.” Scott gives her a brilliant smile and reaches out to squeeze Lydia's arm. “Feel better, Lydia.”

“Thanks,” she murmurs, supremely embarrassed at the way they're both treating her like she's a small child, and stands in the hallway with Allison to watch Scott disappear inside the elevator.

Allison sighs and tugs on Lydia's arm. “Come on, Scott said you wanted to shower.”

“Allison” -

“Don't.” Allison shoots her a sharp look. “I don't want to hear any excuses, okay?”

“Okay,” Lydia says faintly, and lets Allison lead her down the hallway and into their room.

Lydia sinks down on the edge of her bed to take off her Nikes and peels her sweater over her head while Allison puts down her dance bag and rifles through the papers Scott gave her. Lydia moves around her to go into the bathroom and Allison slips in behind her and hauls herself up onto the edge of the sink. Lydia rolls her tights down, staring at Allison, who ignores her, pretending to read whatever she's holding.

Lydia reaches into the shower to turn the water on and pulls down the straps of her leotard. “Seriously?”

Allison lets her head drop back against the mirror. “Look, believe me, I'm not happy about this either. I really don't want to fight with you right now so just take your shower, okay?”

Lydia's too tired to argue so she steps out of her leotard and gets into the shower, whipping the curtains closed so she at least has some semblance of privacy. She tilts back under the spray and shuts her eyes, lets the water rinse away a few humiliated tears. She washes up and shampoos her hair before stepping out and taking the towel that Allison offers her. Lydia blow dries her hair while Allison just sits there on the counter, watching her, as if she's worried Lydia's going to toss the hairdryer into the tub and jump in after it.

When she's done Allison follows her back into their room. Lydia puts on clean underwear and grabs a cream colored [top](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533516174254) and a pair of leggings. When she's dressed she puts her shoes back on and glances at Allison, who nods grimly. 

Lydia sighs, reaching up to run her fingers through her her hair and shake it out. “Look, I'm sorry, okay? It was an accident.”

“An _accident?_ ” Allison looks instantly enraged. “What were you thinking? Do you know how lucky you were that Aiden caught you? Lydia, you could've cracked your head open!”

“Well, I didn't, okay?”

“That's not the point.” Allison's cheeks are flushed and her hands are curled into fists. “You just keep doing this, you keep putting yourself in these situations where you could really get hurt and you act like you're fine but you're not, you know you're not! And I'm not going to sit here and act like it's okay anymore, I feel guilty enough as it is!”

Lydia stares blankly at her. “Why do you feel guilty? You didn't do anything.”

“Yeah, exactly! I didn't do anything.” Allison blinks furiously, her eyes wet.

“Look, you just don't get it, okay?”

“Then make me!” Allison takes a menacing step forward. “Make me understand why you're willing to kill yourself for this!”

“Because I need it, okay?” Lydia finally snaps. “You don't know what it's like to always have this voice in your head telling you that you're not good enough, that maybe if you were smaller or better or stronger you would've never been dropped last year and you wouldn't have to work twice as hard as everyone else to catch up. You don't know what it's like to be afraid all the time, to feel like you have no control over what's happening to your body, and it's the only thing that helps me, okay? It's the only thing that makes those voices go away and it just gets so loud sometimes, sometimes I just need it to be quiet and it's never quiet anymore and I'm so tired. I'm so tired, Allison.”

Allison starts to cry. “You really think I don't understand that? That I don't know what it's like to live with a voice inside my head? That I can't hear my mom saying _stop crying, Allison_ right now? Because I do, I hear it every day. You can't listen to that voice, Lydia. Everyone has that voice, you just have to tell it to be quiet.”

“Well I can't,” Lydia says tightly. “Maybe I'm not as strong as you are.”

“Then fight!” Allison shouts, and smacks her palm  
against the wall. “Goddamn it, fight it!”

Lydia jumps at the sound and backs away, shivering. “I don't know if I can.”

Allison stalks forward and grabs her by the wrist before Lydia can wriggle away. “You _have_ to.”

Lydia's eyes fill with tears. “I'm really tired, Allison.”

Allison pulls her in gently and wraps her arms around her. “I know,” she murmurs. “I know you are.”

Lydia sniffs and presses her face into Allison's curls, finally letting herself fall into Allison because Allison is her best friend, Allison won't let her break, not all the way.

“You can't give up,” Allison whispers. “I won't let you give up.”

“I know,” Lydia sighs, and drops her chin to Allison's shoulder.

Allison hugs her for a long time before she gives Lydia a squeeze and pulls away. “Come on, dinner time.”

Lydia goes downstairs with Allison to the cafeteria and grabs a tray, instantly overwhelmed, but Allison just glances down at the papers she's still holding and gives Lydia a gentle smile. “Okay, so this says you need to get a carb, a fat, and a protein, okay?”

Lydia reaches for the papers and pouts when Allison holds them high out of her reach. “What _is_ that?”

“Your meal plan from that nutritionist. I have to mark off what you eat and sign it for Nurse McCall.”

Lydia's mouth drops open. “Seriously?”

Allison just shrugs and drops a dinner roll and a pat of butter onto Lydia's tray. “You just couldn't do this the easy way, could you?”

Lydia stares down at her tray. “That's not really my thing.”

Allison snorts. “No shit.”

Lydia sighs to herself. She waits while Allison gets a grilled caprese sandwich and selects a baked chicken breast for herself under Allison's approving eye. They eat over by the windows, when Lydia's finished (each bite a painful struggle, the nails of her right hand digging into her thigh as she eats) Allison fills out the top sheet of paper and signs it before putting it into her bag.

“I have showcase rehearsal,” Allison says, looking a little apprehensive. “Are you going to be okay until I come back?”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “I don't need twenty-four seven supervision.”

“Right now you do,” Allison says, sounding only a little bitter about it.

Lydia reaches up and twists her finger around a strand of hair. “I'll be fine, I'll go hang out with Malia and Kira or something.”

“Okay.” Allison sighs but then her arms come around Lydia and she hugs her very tightly. “I love you,” she murmurs. “I would do anything for you, you know that, right?”

Lydia nods into Allison's shoulder. “I love you too.”

They leave the cafeteria together and say goodbye in front of the elevator, Lydia takes it up to the fourth floor; she gets out in the hallway for a moment and hesitates. She doesn't even know if she'll talk to her, if she's wasting her time, but Lydia can't keep going like this, she has to know what really happened. 

Because deep down, she knows that Scott's right. If she doesn't stop, she could die.

Just like Laura.

When [Cora](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1533516225930) opens the door to her room Lydia freezes and almost considers walking away, staring at the lurid red wolf on Cora's sweatshirt, like a warning. Cora tosses her glossy hair over her shoulder and raises an eyebrow at Lydia. “Did you want something?”

Lydia straightens her spine and lifts her chin. “I need to talk to you.”

“About?”

“Your sister.”

The color drains out of Cora’s face and she leans over Lydia to make sure there's no one in the hallway before pulling Lydia into her room and slamming the door shut. Cora's room is small but nicely decorated - a bed with a dusty rose duvet cover pushed against one wall, a pale blue futon against the other and a yoga mat spread out on the floor between them. Cora walks over in front of the futon and crosses her arms defensively. “What about my sister?”

Lydia sits down on the edge of the futon. “I need to know what happened to her.”

Cora's eyes go wide. “Why? Did something… did Peter do something?”

Lydia purses her lips. “Tell me what happened to Laura and I'll tell you what happened with Peter.”

Cora stands there for a long time and then she sighs and sinks down on the opposite end of the futon. “When my parents died,” she starts, “people would say I had it the easiest. Kids are adaptable and all the crap. I don't know if that's true. I was so young… I can barely remember them now. The sound of their voices, the way it felt when they hugged me. It all fades.”

Cora clears her throat before continuing. “Derek took it the hardest. He was sixteen, and on top of everything with _Kate_ ” - Cora spits the word out like its dirty - "he just went crazy. Partying every night, fucking anyone in a pair of tights. He was so angry, for so long. And you need to understand something about Peter and Derek - Peter was our mom's younger brother, we grew up with him. He and Derek were best friends. Derek idolized him. Peter was… different, before the fire. And then after - in some ways he was the only one who could keep Derek in line. The only reason he made it into the company and isn't like, in prison or out on the street, is because Peter made sure of it.

“But Laura… she was nineteen, it was her first year as a soloist with the company, and overnight she was an orphan with custody of her two younger siblings. Derek was in school then but I was too young to start level one. I lived in San Francisco with her until I was old enough to board here. I can't even imagine how stressed out she was - her career was just starting and then our parents died, we found out about Derek and Kate, which was its own mess, and she was stuck taking care of me. And Laura was the kind of person who just handled shit, you know? She never complained, not once. She never talked about it, either. I think she just held that stuff in for so long that she didn't remember how to talk to anyone. And Peter is - well you know how Peter is.”

“Yeah,” Lydia murmurs.

“I stayed in her apartment last summer while she was touring with the company. I found pills, in her bathroom.”

“What kind of pills?” 

“Pain pills, opiates. She pinched a nerve in her neck a few years ago. But…” Cora runs her fingers through her hair. “When I asked her about it she got kind of weird. She told me to forget about it. And then, last fall…” Cora trails off, her voice thick. “I know everyone has all these crazy theories about what happened. And I was just her little sister, she never opened up to me the way I would talk to her. She was almost more like my mom, really. And I know she never talked to Derek because he blames himself for what happened. It's why he retired early.”

“Cora.” Lydia reaches over and puts her hand on the other girl's shoulder. “What do you think happened?”

When Cora looks up her eyes are full of tears. “I think she was really sad. I think she was hurting and she was always so strong for us that she didn't want anyone to know, and she let it eat her up inside until there was nothing left.”

“I'm sorry,” Lydia whispers.

Cora sniffs loudly and swipes at her eyes. “So what happened? What did he do?”

“You knew, didn't you? That something would happen.”

Cora looks away. “I know how he runs his rehearsals.”

“And you and Derek let him come here and choreograph anyway.”

“I had nothing to do with it.” Cora's voice shakes. “Derek thinks I'm just a kid, he wouldn't listen to me anyway. Derek… has a blind spot where Peter’s concerned.”

“Great,” Lydia mutters.

“So what did he do? Tell you to lose weight? Make you practice until all your toes bled? Screamed at you?”

Lydia swallows back a wave of nausea. “He dropped me.”

Cora's face crumples. “What?”

“He called it an _excercise_. He said he was going to help me.”

Cora tilts her head back and rolls her shoulders. “Fuck.”

“Mhmm.”

Cora glances sideways at her. “What are you going to do?”

“I don't know yet.”

Cora nods. “Are you going to tell Derek?”

“Would Derek do anything?”

Cora lets out a painful sounding dry laugh. “I don't know if he could do anything. No one's ever gone up against Peter and won.”

“Cora.”

“Yeah?”

“Malia told me Peter made Derek give her the second spot in the company.”

Cora shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “I don't know anything about that.”

“Malia says you're the one who told her.”

“Look, just because I heard it doesn't mean that's what's happening, Derek and Peter always have ulterior motives.”

Lydia reaches up and rubs her temples. “Okay.”

Cora sighs. “Look, you do whatever you have to do, okay? I won't get in your way.”

“Alright,” Lydia says, and gets up to leave, because Cora looks sad and distant and she's gotten everything she came for.

“Lydia.” Cora stands up and follows her to the door. “You can let Peter burn for all I care but Derek's my brother. He's the only family I have left.”

“I'll consider that,” Lydia says, and walks out into the hallway.

She leans against the wall and closes her eyes, counts to ten, and exhales slowly as she pulls out her phone. She sends a text and walks around the corner to the common room, and five minutes later Aiden shows up, his hands in the pockets of his grey sweatpants.

“Hey,” he says cautiously.

“Hey,” Lydia greets him. “Thanks for meeting me.”

He shrugs. “You said it was important.”

He pulls open the door to the common room and Lydia follows him inside. There's a little group of level sixes hanging out on the couch, Hayden Romero and her boyfriend Liam, one of his friends, Mason, and a round faced boy sitting in Mason's lap.

“Out,” Aiden snaps, and all four of them startle and jump up from the couch, filing out of the common room with a few quiet grumbles. Aiden leads Lydia over to the now-unoccupied couch and pulls her to sit down next to him. “Okay, what did you need to tell me?”

Lydia swallows tightly, her throat is still a little sore from last night. “Do you remember that time we walked out of rehearsal and you asked me if Peter had ever done anything like that before?”

“Yeah?”

“I lied,” she says quietly. “Something happened, a while ago. I never - I never told anyone.”

Aiden shifts towards her, one arm stretched out on the back of the couch. “What happened, did he hurt you?”

“No,” she says carefully, and starts to shake. “Not really.”

“Lydia.” Aiden reaches out and Lydia lets him pull her against his side, his arm coming around her shoulders. “What did he do to you?”

Lydia turns into him and presses her face into his chest, shivering. “He scared me.”


	22. safety nets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay my darlings, a few things before we begin. This chapter has no outfit set links, because last week Polyvore was acquired by Ssense.com and they shut down the Polyvore app and website overnight without warning their users. Ssense is a luxury online retailer and they will not be offering any of the creative functions Polyvore had, they bought the site solely to gain Polyvore users' data. To be honest I'm kind of heartbroken, it's unbelievably frustrating to have your work literally disappear overnight without being given the option to save it on another platform first. I'm keeping an eye on it and there has been a LOT of pushback from the Polyvore community, but for right now we've got nothing. This chapter is over 10k again because I am really bad at looking at my scene outlines and guessing how long they'll be once they're written out. A big thank you to Rachel (writergirl8) for letting me bounce ideas off of her and helping me when I got stuck. I've been sick since last week so getting this done was a real challenge - if you enjoy this chapter and are feeling extra kind, please leave a comment and let me know! I could really use something nice to read while I sit here weeping over the outfit sets I had already created for this chapter that were kidnapped in the name of corporate greed.

When [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528650736876) goes up to technique with [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528650664894) on Friday morning after breakfast (Greek yogurt topped with sliced strawberries and a scoop of granola, consumed under Allison's watchful eye and notated on another form for Nurse McCall) Marin is waiting just outside the studio.

“Mademoiselle Martin,” she says. “A word?”

Allison glances at her and Lydia shrugs, tilting her head to indicate for Allison to go in without her. Allison's mouth twists to the side but she pushes through the studio door, leaving Lydia alone in the hallway with Marin. Her stomach drops; this has to be about yesterday, Nurse McCall said she was going to tell Marin and Nurse McCall doesn't make empty threats.

“I'm sorry,” Marin says gently. “But I can't let you take class today.”

Lydia stares at her. She understands, it makes sense after what happened yesterday, but she still can't quite believe it. 

“There's a meeting today to discuss it further,” Marin continues. “At twelve-thirty in Derek's office. I know you won't be late, right?”

Lydia shakes her head, her fingers suddenly numb, like she's going into shock. “What am I supposed to do until then?”

“You're welcome to observe class along with Mademoiselle Tate. If you wish.”

“No thank you,” Lydia declines politely, feeling a bit dizzy.

This isn't a nightmare. It's really happening.

“Very well.” Marin reaches out and to Lydia's surprise she cups her hand over her shoulder. “I'm sure I can trust that you'll be alright until then?”

“Yes,” Lydia whispers obediently.

Marin’s expression softens. “Good girl,” she murmurs. “I'll see you at twelve-thirty then.”

She turns with a swish of her floor length cobalt blue skirt and goes inside the studio, leaving Lydia alone in the hallway. She stands there for a moment, stunned, and then turns on her heel to walk back to the elevator. She digs into her bag to get a sip of water, her whole body shaking, when her hand brushes her phone, buzzing in the interior pocket. Lydia pulls it out and almost drops it when she sees Stiles’ face on the screen. They haven't talked since he walked away from her on Wednesday night, why is he calling her?

Her curiosity wins out and she swipes the screen to answer, dropping her bag down on the floor and leaning against the wall as the phone rings until he picks up.

“Lydia, hey!” She can hear other voices layered over his, people in the background, he must be at school.

“Stiles.”

“Hey, hi, how are you?”

“Why are you calling me?” she blurts out, baffled.

“Oh, well I kind of thought you weren't gonna answer, I assumed you were in class, so I wasn't planning on actually, um, talking to you, I was just gonna leave a message but uh, yeah, I was just wondering if you were okay?”

Lydia rubs her forehead with her fingertips. “Why?”

“Oh, um, I gave Scott a ride to school and he uh, mentioned that you weren't feeling well yesterday and I just wanted to make sure you were alright, I was kind of worried I guess.”

“Oh,” Lydia runs her tongue against the edge of her teeth, she can still taste the yogurt she had for breakfast.

“So are you?”

“What?”

Stiles sounds a little impatient, he's probably going to be late for class. “Are you okay?”

“I don't know,” she confesses, and starts to cry.

“Lydia” -

“I have to go,” she weeps, covering her face with her free hand, hiding even though he isn't there.

“Lydia, come on” -

“I'll call you later,” she whispers, and hangs up. 

She takes a few huge shuddering breaths and wipes her face, puts her phone back in her bag and walks to the elevator. She takes it down to the first floor and goes down the stairs to the gym. It's completely empty; everyone is in class right now, everyone but her. Lydia slips her earbuds in and gets onto a treadmill, swallowing back a sour taste in the back of her throat. This is it, she's going to get dropped from the showcase and everything she's worked for, everything she thought she was, will disappear forever.

She doesn't have a prayer of getting into the company, any company, without a good showcase performance.

It's over.

She walks and walks, a podcast playing in her ear that she doesn't hear a word of, wondering what it meant that Stiles called her as soon as he heard she wasn't feeling well. Why would he be worried about her after the way she treated him the other night? 

_I'm not your boyfriend, but if I was I'd tell you that it's okay to ask for help._

He made it sound so easy, like all she has to do is open her mouth and force her tongue to spit out the word. Like asking for help wouldn't mean having to tear down all her walls and crack open her ribcage and pull her beating heart out of her chest and offer it out for him to squeeze into a bloody pulp.

Lydia gets off the treadmill and stalks across the gym to the barre installed against the far wall. She takes off her Nikes and sits down on the floor to pull on her canvas ballet slippers, and switches over to her Tchaikovsky playlist. She does Marin's entire barre sequence alone, watching herself in the mirror, realizing that this might be the last time she does this here. It happens occasionally, girls leaving before a semester is over, girls who couldn't keep up with everyone else, girls couldn't take it anymore.

Girls who broke. 

Lydia folds over and presses her face against the fabric of her leggings, and chokes back a scream.

She hides out in the gym until 12:15, fixes her ponytail in the mirror and puts her Nikes back on, takes the elevator up to the second floor and walks down the hallway to Derek's office. She paces back and forth in front of the closed office door until 12:29, brings her fist up to the wood and knocks, barely hearing the sound over the rushing in her ears. She waits a moment and turns the knob, her heart dropping when she opens the door.

Her mother is already here, sitting in one of two chairs set up in front of Derek’s desk. He’s sitting behind it dressed casually in a grey henley and jeans, his fingers steepled together. Marin's perched on the edge of his desk, Jennifer is leaning against the window, and Nurse McCall is sitting in an armchair in the corner.

“Lydia.” Derek offers her a ghost of a smile. “Come sit down.”

She floats over to the open chair and sinks into it, glancing sideways at her mother. Her face is pale and her eyes are watery, she has a crumpled tissue clutched in one hand and she refuses to meet Lydia's gaze. Lydia looks back over at Derek, biting the inside of her cheek. If her mother is this upset they must have told her what happened already.

“Before we begin,” Derek says. “Is there anything you want to tell us? Anything you think we should know?”

Lydia think about it for a moment, telling the teaching staff and her mother about what her choreographer did to her, how he trapped her in a dark room and chased her until she was terrified, dropped her to the floor with no regard for her safety, how he pushes her and taunts her and makes her feel like the only thing that matters is him, pleasing him, avoiding his wrath, his voice in her head, his hands on her body, his blue eyes glowing in the dark.

_Uncle Peter has a temper._

Cora's voice echoes in her head like a warning. Besides, who would believe her, when the only person in that room with her was Peter Hale, Derek's uncle?

_Derek has a blind spot where Peter's concerned._

Maybe he's about to pull her from the showcase, but if she tells Derek about Peter the consequences could be even worse. If she's learned anything it's that girls don't go up against wolves and win.

They get eaten alive.

Lydia presses her lips together and shakes her head, curling her hands into fists and digging her knuckles into the tops of her thighs.

“Alright then,” Derek says with a sigh. “The reason we're all here is that the quality of your dancing has been suffering over the last few months. You and I had a meeting two months ago about this. I told you if it continued we'd need to have another discussion.”

He stops and gives Lydia a pointed look; she flushes and looks down at her lap, nodding in acknowledgment. “At this point,” Derek continues. “Your teachers and I have failed to see any improvement. And then there's the matter of your health.”

Lydia's head snaps up. Derek looks calm but very stern, his arms folded over his desk. “I take incidents like what happened yesterday very seriously, Lydia.”

Her mother sniffs dramatically into her tissue and Lydia has to repress the urge to roll her eyes. “It was an accident,” she explains evenly, pushing her fingernails into her palms. “It won't happen again.”

“No,” Derek says shortly. “It won't.”

Nobody says anything for a moment and suddenly Lydia can't breathe, it's too quiet, and she looks sideways at her mother but her mother is weeping softly into her tissue, like this is about her, and all it makes Lydia feel is enraged, that she's done everything that was asked of her, worked herself down to her bones and devoted her entire life to making everyone in this room proud, be the ballerina they all believed she could be, bled and cried and broke for them and now they're going to let her go, just like that.

“We’re all concerned,” Marin says softly. “I believe is what Derek meant.”

Nurse McCall clears her throat and Derek glances at her, looking strangely chastised. “I wanted to drop you from the showcase,” he says, and -

Lydia's entire body goes cold and she swears for one moment she's going to throw up all over his desk, but then Derek glances at Marin and leans back in his chair. “But I was convinced otherwise.”

Lydia's mother exhales sharply and reaches for her hand but Lydia shrinks back in her chair, looking helplessly between Derek and Marin. “What?”

“There are conditions, of course,” Marin says smoothly. 

“Of course,” her mother says immediately. “She'll do anything.”

“Lydia?” Derek raises an eyebrow at her.

She blinks helplessly at him, emotionally whiplashed and disoriented. “What kind of conditions?”

“Checkups with me,” Nurse McCall speaks up. “Three mornings a week. For starters.”

“And no more incidents in class.” Marin leans forward a little. “This nonsense must end before someone gets hurt.”

“Done,” Lydia's mother says firmly.

“Mom” -

“Don't you dare,” her mother hisses, and Lydia flinches like she's been slapped.

“Well then.” Derek nods like it's already been decided. “Lydia? Are we in agreement?”

“When can I take class again?”

“Lydia!” her mother exclaims, looking exasperated.

Nurse McCall stands up and crosses her arms over her pale green button down. “You can't. You're officially on rest until further notice.”

Lydia's mouth drops open. “What?”

“You heard me. No class, no rehearsal, no practicing, no exercise of any kind, got it? I'll examine you on Monday morning and we’ll go from there. When your vitals are good and your weight is stable you can take class again.”

“But I can still dance in the showcase?”

“If you meet our conditions,” Derek says.

She doesn't have a choice. She has to dance in the showcase.

“Alright,” she agrees, and lifts her chin like what's left of her pride hasn't just been smashed to pieces.

Derek nods and reaches across the table, holding his hand out to her. Lydia shakes his hand, watching the way his face softens around the eyes as he releases his grip on her, remembering what Malia told her earlier this week: 

_He said he wasn't going to sit back and watch another girl get hurt._

“Good,” her mother says shortly, and stands up, slinging her tote bag over her shoulder. “Thank you very much, we're very appreciative.”

She shakes hands with Derek, Marin, and Nurse McCall before clamping her fingers around Lydia's wrist and pulling her into the hallway. “I cannot believe you,” her mother explodes as soon as the door to Derek’s office is shut. “You promised me when you came back to school last fall that you were done with this, we had a deal.”

“I'm sorry,” Lydia says weakly, stumbling after her towards the elevator.

“Do you have any idea how humiliating it was to be called into a meeting like that and have no idea what was going on? After everything I've done for you, this is the position you put me in?”

“Well I'm so sorry that this is difficult for you,” Lydia snarls, and steps into the elevator.

Lydia reaches out to hit the button for the fourth floor but her mother steps into the elevator with a click of her sensible kitten heels and catches Lydia's hand, and hits the button for the lobby instead. “I don't think so sweetheart. You're staying in the office right where I can see you until it's time to go home.”

Lydia's mouth opens in disbelief. “That's _six hours_ from now.”

“Well too bad,” her mother snaps. “Maybe you should've thought more about the consequences of your behavior.”

“You're being ridiculous.”

“No, you know what's ridiculous? Being brought into a room and told by people I work with that my daughter has been starving herself right under my nose and I had no idea what they were talking about!”

“Mom, I'm not starving myself,” Lydia protests. “Everyone is being overdramatic, you're blowing this completely out of proportion!”

Her mother stabs aggressively at the elevator button again. “Watch your tone, young lady.”

The elevator doors open and Lydia follows her mother helplessly through the lobby to her office. Her mother sets her tote bag down on her desk and opens her laptop. Lydia sighs loudly and drops her gym bag down on the sofa opposite the desk and unzips it, takes out her water bottle and tosses it between her palms. She's too worked up to sit, ignoring her mother's exasperated look as she paces back and forth, sipping what's left in her bottle.

She feels claustrophobic, exposed and properly shamed, and she launches across the room towards the door, her water bottle clutched in her hands.

“And where do you think you're going?” her mother snaps.

“Oh, am I not allowed to walk to the water fountain now? Really?” Lydia doesn't wait for a response, she stomps out of her mother's office and down the hallway to the little alcove where the drinking fountains are.

She fills up her water bottle but her hands start shaking so badly she can barely get the cap back on. Lydia turns around and slides down the wall to sit on the floor. She pulls her legs in towards her chest and wraps her arms around her shins, lightheaded and nauseous all over again, because she can't believe she let it get this far, her dream held in Derek's palm, waiting to be crushed. 

He owns her now. She makes one wrong move, one mistake, and the showcase is gone, her career will be over before it can even begin.

Like she wasn't under enough pressure already.

She drops her head down to her knees and breathes through the tightness in her chest, that manic downward spiral of fear, that she's lost control, that she's made some kind of fatal mistake she can't take back, her weaknesses laid out and exposed right there in Derek's office. Hot tears slide out of the corners of her eyes and she squeezes them shut, reaching up to fold her hands over the top of her head, curling into a little Lydia-shell, hard and small and breakable.

“Hey, Lydia.” Her head snaps up; Scott is crouched down in front of her, his backpack on the ground by his feet. “What's wrong, don't you have partnering right now?”

“I'm not allowed to take class today.” Lydia wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.

Scott's face softens, sympathetic. “Because of what happened yesterday?”

She nods and rests her chin on her knees. Scott sits back and leans against the wall, giving her enough space so she doesn't feel trapped but close enough for her to fall into him, if she wanted to. Lydia brushes a stray tear off her cheek and wipes her hands on her leggings. “You don't have to sit with me.”

He offers her a gentle smile. “I know.”

Lydia sighs and tips her head back against the wall, and sits next to Scott in silence. After a moment he stretches and reaches for his backpack. “Have you had lunch yet?”

She stares blankly at him. “No.”

“Come on.” Scott shoulders his backpack and reaches for her hand. “We can take my mom's car, I still have a little time before I'm supposed to start my shift with Deaton.”

She thinks about the way she's been silently treading water for months, exhausted, pushed to her breaking point, but every time she starts to slip under the surface someone reaches out and pulls her back up again.

“I have to ask my mom,” she tells him.

“Okay.” He wiggles his fingers and maybe it's just a survival instinct but she takes his hand a little desperately, and lets him pull her to her feet.

Scott follows her back to the office, giving her mom a bright smile when they walk in. “Hey Ms. Martin! Is it okay if I take Lydia out to lunch?”

Her mother blinks at him for a moment, her lips pursed, but then she reaches into her tote bag and takes out some cash and a sheet of paper. “You're going to need this, apparently my daughter has lost the privilege of unsupervised meals.”

It's one of those sheets Allison has been filling out for Nurse McCall. Lydia's cheeks flush, she didn't know her mother had them too, but Scott just nods seriously and pockets the money, takes the form, folds it in half and stuffs it in his backpack. “No problem.”

Her mother gives Scott a pleased smile. “Thank you. I expect you'll have her back here when you're done.”

Lydia rolls her eyes up to the ceiling. “ _She_ is right here.”

“ _She_ is going to be grounded if she keeps up the attitude,” her mother says, aggressively flipping through a manilla folder on her desk. “Lunch and then right back here, Scott.”

“Of course, Ms. Martin,” Scott assures her mother, looking a little uncomfortable at being caught in the middle.

Lydia stomps over to the sofa and shoulders her bag, turns on her heel and walks out without saying goodbye to her mother, forcing Scott to do it for her and rush to catch up with her in the hallway.

“So, your mom knows, huh?” Scott says tentatively.

“Thanks to your mom, everyone knows.”

“She's just doing her job.”

Lydia glares at him and he snaps his mouth shut, looking frustrated.

They walk together in silence down the hallway and out the back entrance; Lydia follows him across the parking lot to his mom's car, squinting in the sunshine. Scott digs the keys out of his backpack and unlocks the car, takes Lydia's bag from her and tosses it into the back. She gets into the passenger seat and slams the door shut, watching Scott walk around to the driver's side and get into the car, shut his door and twist to buckle his seatbelt.

“So,” he says, faux-cheerful, like he's trying to be positive for her benefit. “Where do you want to go?”

“I don't care,” she says sullenly, and leans her head against the window.

He sighs and turns the keys in the ignition. “Beacon Hills Grill okay then?”

“I said I didn't care.”

Scott reverses out of the parking spot. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Lydia drapes one hand over her eyes. “I really, really don't.”

“You might feel better,” he offers.

“Doubt it.”

He drives out of the parking lot and turns down the side road leading to the street that will take them in the direction of downtown. “Don't you think that's kind of how this happened in the first place?” he asks tentatively.

She shoots him a sharp look. “What are you talking about?”

Scott shrugs, flipping on his turn signal as he brakes for a stop sign. “I just think that if you had talked to Allison or somebody about how you were feeling we could've helped you before things got this bad.”

“I never asked you to help me.”

“But you're our friend.” Scott sounds confused. It must make things so simple, to have an unshakable moral code like that.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe you can't help me?”

“No,” Scott says firmly. “Because I don't believe that.” 

Lydia sits back in her seat and sulks all the way to the grill. It's too overwhelming, in the past week every carefully constructed lie she's told has come crashing down on her, all of the secret ugly things she relies on taken away from her and leaving her with nothing but soft words and open hands, and she doesn't know what to do with it. She doesn't know how to let them help her.

She never wanted to be the kind of girl who needed someone to save her.

When they get to Beacon Hills Grill Scott parks on the street and walks around to open the car door for her, walks her inside with one hand hovering just above her shoulder like he's afraid she's going to make a run for it. They get in line at the counter to order and Lydia stares anxiously up at the menu board, her head spinning. She doesn't understand how they expect her to do it, give up all her rules, all the things that give her order and control, just because they say she has to.

Like all of the things she's been doing is a choice and not a series of survival mechanisms she's become increasingly dependent on.

“Lydia,” Scott says softly, when he's ordered a burger and she still hasn't made a decision.

She orders a grilled chicken sandwich without mayo, mentally daring Scott to say something about it, but he just rolls his shoulders back and hands over a twenty to the cashier, who passes him a plastic order number and a receipt.

Lydia follows Scott over to a booth by the windows that face the street. She slides in opposite him and crosses her arms over her chest, freezing in the air conditioning, wishing she was wearing more than a thin cotton black and grey muscle tank over her leotard. Scott reaches into his backpack and digs out a navy zip up hoodie. “Are you cold?”

She's too tired to pretend, Lydia reaches out and takes the sweatshirt from him. “Thanks,” she mumbles, shrugging it on and rolling the long sleeves up around her wrists.

“Sure.” Scott fiddles with the straw of his water glass. “Are you mad at us?”

Lydia hesitates before shaking her head. “No.”

“You seem mad.”

“Maybe I don't like everyone treating me like I'm a crazy person who can't be trusted.”

“No one thinks you're crazy! We just think…”

“What? You think what?”

Scott taps his straw against the glass. “We're just worried about you.”

“Oh.” The guilt hits her so hard and fast she has to duck her head into her hands, ashamed of herself.

“Lydia,” he says softly. “Just talk to me.”

She peeks out at him from between her fingers. “What did you tell Stiles?”

Scott blinks innocently at her. “What?”

“He called me this morning. He said you told him I wasn't feeling well.”

“Oh.” He shifts around in his seat, looking a little uncomfortable. “He just wanted to know how you were, and I'm not going to lie to him, but I'm trying not to get involved with whatever is going on with you two right now either, so I told him you were okay but that you weren't feeling well yesterday.”

“Okay,” she exhales. That isn't too bad. “I don't - I don't want everyone to be worried about me.”

Scott shoots her a bewildered look. “But you're - how do you expect us to not worry about you? We're your friends, we're allowed to be concerned about you.”

“I don't _want_ you to be concerned about me, I want…”

She wants to go back to the girl she used to be, before Peter, before Jackson, before they dropped her, before she started seeing wolves in the dark, before she was afraid all the time. She wants to feel in control again, she wants to be able to dance without it hurting, she wants to be able to love something without having to bleed for it.

She wants to remember what it's like to feel good, to feel safe in her body again, to not be at constant war with herself.

“Lydia,” Scott prompts, sounding worried.

“I don't know,” she mutters in defeat, and drops her head into her hands.

When their food comes Lydia peels up the top piece of bread to examine the contents of her sandwich - chicken, tomato, lettuce, and not a hint of mayonnaise. She starts to take the bread apart with her hands so she can eat it in little pieces but Scott makes a pained noise and reaches over the table to catch her hands in his own.

“Sorry,” he says. “I'm not supposed to let you do that.”

“Do what?” she asks dumbly, frozen, fascinated at the way he can wrap his fingers all the way around her wrist and then some.

“Um.” Scott looks uncomfortable. “I don't think you're allowed to do stuff like that with your food anymore, it's uh, it's on the sheet.”

“What's on the sheet?”

He lets go of her hands and carefully fixes her sandwich for her. “Behaviors.”

Lydia stares at him, feeling so exposed for a moment that she has to fight the urge to get up and walk out, but then she remembers that she can't, because she needs Scott to sign that stupid form so Nurse McCall will let her take class again. She picks up the sandwich and takes a tiny bite out of one corner, chews, chews, chews, and swallows. She raises an eyebrow at Scott, who hasn't touched his food yet, watching her eat intently.

“Happy now?” she asks sharply.

“Not really,” he mumbles, and picks up his burger.

She makes it through the first half of her sandwich staring down at the table, fingernails pushing into her thigh, taking a sip of water between each bite. She looks down at the second half of the sandwich and nausea rolls over her; Lydia exhales slowly through her nose and cradles her forehead in her palms. She can't do it, she's going to be sick and then lunch won't even count and Nurse McCall won't sign her sheet and she won't be able to dance on Monday -

“Lydia, hey.” Scott's gotten up without her even realizing, his entire burger already consumed. He down next to her on her side of the booth and one of his hands spreads over her back between her shoulder blades, and Lydia shudders at his touch.

“I hate this,” she whispers thickly. 

“Yeah, I know.” His voice is soft and understanding and it makes her feel painfully vulnerable, that no matter how difficult she's being, no matter how many walls she hides behind, Scott will still be here, patient as ever, whether she deserves his loyalty or not.

“I can't finish it.” It feels like the worst kind of failure, being incapable of meeting such a simple expectation.

“You don't have to finish the entire thing, just do your best.”

When she lifts her head to look at him Scott gives her an encouraging smile. “No one expects you to magically get better overnight. You just have to try, okay?”

She doesn't know why but just hearing him say that makes the pressure in her chest relax. She still doesn't think she can do it, but she can try. “Okay,” she breathes.

She isn't able to finish it but she gets down at least half of what's left of the sandwich before she has to stop, her stomach threatening to protest. Scott pats her hand when she pushes her plate away, like he's proud of her, takes out that form and fills everything out, signs it and crisply folds it in half. “I'll give this to my mom for you,” he says, putting it away and zipping up his backpack.

“Do I get a sticker too?” she asks dryly, and Scott grins as he shoulders his backpack.

They drive back to school and go in through the back entrance but instead of turning down the hallway to Deaton's office Scott walks straight ahead with Lydia towards the lobby. “You don't literally have to walk me all the way there,” she tells him.

“I don't mind,” he says easily.

Lydia sighs, playing with the strap of her bag. “Scott.”

“Yeah?”

Her eyes fill with tears and she blinks rapidly, shaking her head. “Nevermind.”

“Hey, Lydia.” Scott stops walking and catches her gently by the elbow. “What is it?”

She tilts her head back so her tears can't escape. “I'm just...” She presses her lips together and manages to give him a tight smile. “I'm just sorry.”

“Lydia, hey, it's okay.” Scott's arms come around her and she sinks into it, letting him hold her up and plant a kiss on her forehead. “I know. We know you are.”

She sniffs and ducks her head under his chin. “Everyone's angry with me.”

Scott sighs and trips his fingers lightly down her back, like he's feeling for bones. “There's a difference between being mad and being concerned, Lydia.”

She squeezes her eyes shut for a second and nods against his chest, trying to focus on the steady beat of his heart and not think of Stiles earlier, calling just because he was worried about her, even though all she's done is push him away again and again.

“It's okay,” Scott says softly. “Everything's going to be okay.”

Lydia lets out a shaky laugh. “I don't know if I believe that.”

He gives her a full body squeeze before releasing her, like he's trying to transfer some of his own strength into her body. “I'll believe it for you then.”

She gives him a watery smile. “Okay.”

Scott grins and slings his arm over her shoulder. “Okay.”

He walks her right into the office and waves at her mom, who's on the phone and taking notes on a pad of paper. “I've gotta go for my shift,” he says quietly. “Will you be like okay?”

“I guess we’ll see,” she deadpans.

Scott wrinkles his forehead, like he doesnt think it's funny, and hugs her again. “Hey, Stiles’ dad is working tonight.”

“What?”

“Just think about it,” he murmurs, and pats her on the shoulder as he releases her and leaves her mother's office.

It's only a little after two, Lydia still has hours to go before it's time to leave. She pulls out her iPad and plugs her earbuds in, opens up YouTube to the video of Laura dancing The Little Mermaid and taps the play icon. She watches Laura carefully as she makes her entrance, staring at her wide eyes, the bones of her exposed spine, her frail arms as she sweeps them up over her head.

How did Laura do it? How was it possible for her to move like this, every little element executed perfectly, full of energy and emotion, when she was dying inside? 

Lydia watches the ballet the entire way through, studying Laura in every frame, and when it's finished she goes back to the beginning and starts over. Even knowing what Laura was up against, pain and pills and responsibilities and the eyes of the world on her, she's still the benchmark Lydia holds herself to, Laura may have killed herself but that doesn't negate the fact that she was an incredible dancer, an artist, an icon.

Is this what it takes, to be that good? How can Lydia ever achieve this without spilling her own blood and tears, torturing herself into Laura's own image of perfection?

At five-thirty Lydia shoulders her bag and stands up; her mother holds her hand up, finger pointed right at her, the office phone cradled between her ear and shoulder. Lydia waits for her to finish the call, when her mother hangs up she pushes her glasses up into her hair and frowns. “Where do you think you're going?”

“I have to pack.”

“Oh. Alright.” Her mother glances at the clock on the wall. “Be back down here by six-fifteen, okay?”

“I need to shower.”

“I said six-fifteen, if you can't shower and pack in forty five minutes you can shower at home.”

“Is it absolutely necessary to act like I can't be trusted by myself for an hour?”

“You told me that you were done with this after last summer and I had to find out in a meeting that not only have you been hiding this from me for god knows how long, you've put your entire career in jeopardy, not to mention you could have seriously injured yourself, so no, sweetheart, I don't trust you one bit right now, especially not for an hour unsupervised.”

“Fine.” Lydia stalks out of the office and slams the door shut.

She stomps down the hallway to the elevator fuming, hating herself for getting caught, for making everyone worry, for being weak enough to fall yesterday.

When she gets to her room Lydia drops her bag on the floor and goes into the bathroom, shutting the door all the way and locking it. She glances at herself in the mirror and realizes she's still wearing Scott's sweatshirt, she forgot to give it back. Lydia sighs and takes it off, folds it up, runs into the room and puts it on the edge of Allison's bed and goes back to the bathroom. She peels off her clothes and stares at her naked body in the mirror, imagining all the food that's inside her, just sitting there, dirtying her insides and destroying all of her hard work.

She glances at the toilet, thinking about it, contemplating if she could even get any of the food up that she ate with Scott almost five hours ago, but Allison is due to come back from class soon and Lydia's certain that getting rid of what she eats falls into the unacceptable behavior category, unless she really wants to risk getting caught or popping another blood vessel. She grits her teeth and yanks her ponytail holder out, gets into the shower and turns the water on as hot as she can stand it. She takes her time, shampoos and applies deep conditioner, washes, shaves under her arms and her legs, finger combs her hair and rinses out the conditioner before turning off the water and stepping onto the bath mat. She wraps a towel around herself and blow dries her hair into loose waves, puts on a little more makeup than she had on before and goes into her room.

She puts on a soft cream-pink bralette and matching thong and goes through her clothes, pulls a thin dove grey sweater over her head and steps into a pair of loose black [shorts](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528651457930). She gets her weekender out and unzips it, starts to pack and stops halfway to her closet, wondering why she's bothering to stuff in five pairs of leggings when she's not allowed to work out this weekend. Not that they would know, necessarily, but Nurse McCall has a six sense about this stuff that Lydia's a little afraid to challenge. She settles for two pairs of leggings and a few yoga bras, a handful of tops, her pink bomber jacket just in case the temperature drops, and her Nikes. Lydia grabs her laptop and all her cosmetics cases and shoves them into her bag before zipping it up.

[Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528744594428) comes in as Lydia's sliding her feet into her Chloe flats, tossing her bag onto the floor as she shuts their door. “Hey,” she says breathlessly, kicking off her Adidas. “What happened earlier, I was worried about you!”

“Sorry.” Lydia reaches up and tucks a stray wave behind her ear. “I had to go to a meeting with the faculty.”

“About what happened yesterday?”

Lydia nods, her lips pressed together. Allison sighs and gives her a quick hug, one hand running up and down her back, just like Scott earlier. “What happened?”

“I have to rest until Monday, Nurse McCall gets to decide when I can take class next week.”

“Oh, well that's not too bad, right?” Allison asks tentatively.

“They told my mom.”

“Oh.” Allison leans back a little, examining her face. “How'd that go?”

“Swimmingly.” Sarcasm drips off her tongue and Allison makes a little sympathetic noise as she reaches up and yanks her sweatshirt over her head.

“I'm sorry.” Allison unbuttons her jeans and hops out of them. “That sucks, are you in trouble?”

“Apparently I'm in desperate need of an attitude adjustment.”

Allison unhooks her bra and flings it off before pulling out a practice leotard and stepping into it. “Well that's reductive. And unhelpful.”

Lydia sighs and picks up her bags. “It's fine, I can handle her.”

“Are you going to be okay for the weekend?” Allison shoots her a concerned glance as she pulls the straps of her leotard up.

“Yeah, I'll figure it out.”

“Hey.” Allison crosses the small room quickly and catches Lydia by the elbow. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I'm serious. Anything, okay?”

Lydia leans in and kisses Allison's cheek. “Okay.”

Allison smiles, her dimples popping. “I love you, be good.”

“Yes ma'am, love you too.” Lydia manages to give Allison a genuine smile back as she grabs her black cross-body bag with her free hand, sticks her phone into it, and leaves their room.

Her mother is on a call when Lydia gets back to the office, she perches on the arm of the sofa and sighs impatiently a few time while her mother shoots her increasingly irritated glances. When she gets off the phone her mother shuts down her computer, slips into her trench coat and picks up her tote bag. “I ordered from the cafe for dinner.”

“Okay.” Lydia follows her out of the office and down the hallway to the back entrance, her mother's lips twisted into an expression of displeasure the entire time.

When they get to the car Lydia puts her bags on the floor in the back and gets into the passenger seat. Her mother gets into the car and starts the engine but she doesn't shift out of park, sliding her sunglasses over her face so Lydia can't see her expression anymore.

“Is this about me and your father?” her mother asks. “Because I know you haven't had a visit with him in awhile and I've been busy with the company office on the weekends” -

“Not everything is about you.” Lydia leans back in her seat and looks away, out the window at the sun beginning to set over the preserve.

Her mother sighs loudly and pulls out of the parking spot so fast the tires squeal.

When they get to the cafe Lydia waits in the car while her mother goes inside to get their order. When she comes back to the car she hands the bag over to Lydia without a word and drives straight home, parks in the driveway and gets out without waiting for Lydia to follow. Lydia glares at her mother's back as she trudges up the walk with all of her bags hanging off her arms and the food from the cafe clutched in her hands. They go inside and Lydia takes the food into the kitchen, ignoring the slow building panic in her chest, a whole weekend looming over her with nothing to do, no practice sessions, no stretching, just a black hole of time waiting to swallow her up.

To her relief her mother got her usual order for her; Lydia takes the plastic lid off her power bowl, watching as her mother pours herself a full glass of Chardonnay before sliding her salmon onto a plate across the table. Lydia plays divide and conquer, separating everything by food group with her fork. She starts with the mango, eating it piece by piece, taking a sip of water between each bite, waiting for her mother to say something, anything, but she doesn't even seem to notice. When Lydia's finished with the mango she moves on to the avocado, saving the chicken for last. She's full by the time she's halfway done, plenty of quinoa and half of the chicken left. She snaps the lid back on the container and her mother suddenly frowns, reaching across the table to pull the lid back off.

“You aren't finished,” she says sharply. “Eat your dinner.”

“Scott says I don't have to finish, I just have to try,” she says defensively.

“It was sweet of Scott to take you out to lunch but I doubt a teenage boy understands anything about this, honey.”

“He understands more than you,” Lydia mutters.

“I understand that you're supposed to eat your damn dinner!”

Lydia stares at her. “Now you care that I didn't finish?”

Her mother pulls her hand back to her side of the table like she's been burned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I've been doing this for months and you've never said anything to me about it” -

“I didn't know!”

“How could you not know?” A strange sort of fury washes over her. “I'm your daughter, I sit here every week with you and I never finish my dinner, and you've never said anything to me about it!”

“I thought you were done with this, excuse me for trusting you when you promised me this wouldn't happen again after last summer! I didn't know I had to be watching you all the time and I certainly didn't know that things had gotten to a point where you were putting your dancing in jeopardy” -

“Because you're never here!”

Her mother stands up, her chair scraping against the floor, and finishes her wine in one long gulp. “Well excuse me for working my ass off so that _somebody_ can pay the mortgage, and buy the pointe shoes you go through like water, and leotards, and your extensive legging collection, not to mention tuition. Do you think I do any of this for _myself?_ I've done everything for you, everything to give you what you needed, to make you happy, and this is how you repay me?”

“This isn't about you!” Lydia shouts. “How hard is that for you to understand?”

“What's hard for me to understand is how I can sacrifice everything for you, and instead of being grateful, you're acting out and putting everything we've both worked for at risk!”

Lydia stands there, stunned, watching her mother slump against the kitchen island, looking exhausted and angry and lost. “Acting out,” she says flatly. “That's what you think I'm doing.”

Her mother sighs and reaches up to rub her temples. “I don't know sweetheart, what do you think you're doing?”

“Right now? I'm leaving.” Lydia watches all the color go out of her mother's face but she can't care, not when she's standing here raw and broken like this.

Her mother doesn't understand, she wasn't a dancer, she's never put herself through something like this, no one ever held her in a dark room and threatened to do whatever they wanted to her, no one ever pushed her as hard as they could just to see what would make her finally break. Her mother doesn't stop her, she even hands Lydia her car keys with shaking hands before sternly whispering that if she isn't home by eleven she'll call the police.

“I'm eighteen,” Lydia retorts, slipping her flats back on.

“I know you are.” Her mother reaches for her but Lydia slips out of her grasp and walks away, grabs her cross-body bag from where it's sitting on the entrance table in the foyer and goes outside to the car.

She unlocks it and slides inside, puts the keys in the ignition and turns the engine over. Her heart is pounding in her ears and her hands are shaking, she rests them in her lap and leans over, lets her forehead bump against the steering wheel, breathing slowly in and out through her nose until she calms down.

She starts the engine, turns on the headlights and buckles up, carefully backs down the driveway and turns onto the street. She dials the volume of the radio up and sings along to the lyrics so she doesn't cry, driving without thinking too hard about where she's going because she needs to do something, something brave, something to prove to herself that she isn't broken, that she hasn't ruined everything, that she isn't a stupid ungrateful teenager throwing away everything she's been given.

When she gets to Stiles’ house his Jeep is the only car in the driveway; his dad must be at work, just like Scott said. Lydia turns off her headlights and the engine, checks her hair and her teeth in the rearview mirror and gets out of the car. With every step up to the front door her heart slams against her ribs, like her body is trying to remind her of the risk she's taking, showing up here like this, but then Lydia remembers that she already fell and she has nothing left to lose.

She rings the bell and after only maybe fifteen seconds Stiles answers the door, wearing a pair of threadbare jeans and a grey crew neck tee shirt, his eyes widening when he sees her. “Lydia, hey, what are you - what are you doing here?”

She bites the inside of her cheek, suddenly terrified that she's going to start crying. “Are you still mad at me?”

He tilts his head, looking surprised. “Only a little. Why?”

She nods, curling her fingers into her palms so he can't see the way they're trembling, adrenaline rushing through her body. “Do you still want to know how I am?”

One of his eyebrows shoots up. “Do you want to tell me?”

She runs her knuckles against the grooves of her ribs, feeling a little lightheaded, a little desperate in a way she doesn't like. “You know what I really want?”

“What?”

She honestly doesn't mean to say it until the words are already spilling out of her mouth and once she starts she can't stop herself, the confession tears itself right out of her chest. “I want things to go back to how they were before. I want you to look at me the way you used to, and I want to be able to tell you how I am without it being so hard for me to do. And I know that it's impossible to change what I already did so I know that none of that can ever happen, but I still want it. And I want everyone to stop treating me like I'm doing this on purpose, like it's a game, because it's not, and I feel like I have to be strong all the time and I don't know how to be strong without this and I don't know what I'm going to do.”

Stiles’ mouth drops opens and her stomach knots when she realizes what she's just said. “I'm sorry,” she blurts out, and starts to stumble back, but he steps out onto the porch and catches her gently by the wrist.

“Hey, whoa, okay, what's really going on? What happened? It's a Friday, we almost never hang out on Fridays because you stretch after dinner with your mom, but you're not doing that, you're here, saying all of this, which means something big happened.” He suddenly sounds a little panicked. “Is this about what happened yesterday? I mean, I don't know what happened yesterday, Scott was annoyingly vague on the details, but it didn't sound _good_ and no offense but you sounded kind of terrible this morning on the phone and I'm really gonna need you to explain what happened here, Lydia” -

“Stiles.” She goes up on her tiptoes and winds her arms around his neck, flattening herself against him.

He exhales with his whole body and wraps his arms around her, one of them firm around her lower back and the other one around her shoulder so he can snake his hand up her neck to cup the back of her head. Lydia swallows back a sob at the sudden contact of his hands on her and drops her face into that perfect spot at the crook of his neck.

“Okay,” Stiles breathes, like he's trying to calm himself down. “Okay. This would be the part where you tell me what really happened.”

She slips her hands down to his hips, feeling him twitch as she walks her fingers under the hem of his shirt. “You can't get mad.”

“I'm already mad,” he points out.

She pulls back enough to give him a stern look and Stiles huffs, rolling his eyes. “Fine, whatever, I will do my best to not get more mad at you than I already am.”

“Thanks” she says dryly, and drops her head back down to hide her face in the side of his neck so she can't see his expression when she tells him what she did. “I'm not home stretching because I'm not allowed to. Nurse McCall put me on rest until Monday. I'm not allowed to dance, or do anything, really, until then.”

“I'm assuming she had a good reason for that?”

Lydia closes her eyes and holds him a little tighter. “I passed out during partnering yesterday.”

“You _what_ ” -

“Hey, hey,” she interrupts. “It's okay, I'm okay. But that's what Scott meant, when he said I wasn't feeling well.”

Stiles makes a little hurt noise. “How did that happen?”

“I didn't eat all day before class,” she says in a small voice.

“Jesus Christ, seriously? Lydia” -

“I know, I know,” she says quickly. “You don't need to give me a lecture” -

“ _Somebody_ obviously does” -

“I've been getting lectures for the past twenty-four hours, I'm good, I swear.”

Stiles pulls back enough to look at her. “And by good, you mean you understand how fucking dangerous that is and you aren't going to do it again because you wouldn't deliberately do something that could hurt you. Right?”

“Right,” she answers faintly.

He frowns and brings his hands around her face to cup her cheeks, his eyes scanning her lips, her neck, her arms, her bare legs. “Are you hurt, did you fall?”

She presses her cheek against his palm. “I'm fine, Aiden caught me.”

“Aiden?”

“My new pas de deux partner, he's dancing with me in the showcase piece.”

“At least someone knows what he's doing.” Stiles sighs and runs his thumb along her cheekbone. “You probably scared the hell out of everyone.”

She presses her lips together, wondering what's wrong with her that she scared everyone but herself, that she can't feel the invisible line that's supposed to keep her from hurting herself anymore.

“Lydia,” he murmurs, like he can feel it all through her skin - her fear, her pain, her overwhelming anxiety about the showcase.

“I'm sorry,” she whispers, and when he doesn't say anything back she tightens her grip on his shirt. “Please don't be mad anymore.”

“I can be mad at you and care about you at the same time, Lydia.”

“Oh,” she murmurs, surprised, unsure if that means she's forgiven.

He sighs, leaning down so all she can see and feel is him, his hands on her face, his beautiful eyes dark with concern. “Are you okay? Really?”

“I don't know,” she confesses.

He nods and gives her a sad kind of half-smile, dropping his arms down by his sides. “You wanna come in and watch a movie or something?”

Relief hits her so fast she gets dizzy, blinking back a flood of tears. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean, only if you want to.”

Lydia smiles and reaches up to flick a tear off her bottom lashes before it can fall. “I’d really like that.”

“Okay then, come on.” Stiles lays his hand on her shoulder and gently guides her inside his house. “Do you need anything, did you eat dinner?”

“Yeah, I ate with my mom.” Lydia hesitates in the hallway, feeling a residual wave of shame. “She found out what happened, the staff had a meeting about it.”

“Oh shit, really?” He squeezes her shoulder. “How’d that go?”

“She wasn't thrilled,” she says weakly.

Stiles works his jaw and then to her surprise he pulls her in towards his chest and hugs her, just for a moment, before pulling away again. Lydia follows him into the living room, where Carrie Fisher is on the tv screen in a gold bikini. “Star Wars?”

“Yeah, it was just, well, no one was home and it was on, so, you know, but we don't have to watch this, we can put on whatever you like.” Lydia watches in fascination as the tips of his ears turn pink.

She shrugs and perches on the edge of the couch. “I don't mind, I've never seen them.”

Stiles gapes at her. “Them, plural?”

“Mmhm.”

“Lydia.”

“Yes?”

He gives her a look of absolute disbelief. “You've never seen a Star Wars movie?”

“No, are they good?”

“ _Good?_ ” Stiles looks like he's about to have a stroke. “Only one of the best, if not _the_ best movie franchise in the history of time!”

“Okay then.” She waves a hand at the screen. “Let's see it.”

“Oh my god, no, wait.” He lunges for the remote and quickly exits out of the movie, stabbing buttons to go to the main menu. “We can't start here, that's insanity, we have to start with four.”

Lydia wrinkles her nose. “Why would we start with the fourth one?”

“Because the fourth one is the first one. I guess _technically_ we could start with The Phantom Menace and it would be in order but that's just stupid, and you’ll probably want to quit which I wouldn't blame you for, at all, which is why we're going to start with A New Hope and watch them in the order they came out, the way they're meant to be watched, just trust me, okay?”

Lydia smiles, she can't remember ever seeing Stiles get so worked up talking about something like this before. “You really love these, don't you?”

He blinks rapidly at her. “I have a deep passion for an incredibly popular science fiction movie franchise, yes, and after tonight you will too, do not underestimate the power of the force, Lydia.”

She flips her hair over one shoulder. “It's okay, you don't have to be embarrassed that you're a total nerd about it.”

His mouth opens and shuts a few times. “You just called me a nerd.”

Lydia crosses one leg over the other, amused. “Am I wrong?”

“Uh, you're not exactly incorrect, I mean, obviously, but also, wait, hey. You're the one who applied to MIT as a junior so if anyone is a closet nerd here it's you! Which is also really, like, disgustingly impressive, have I mentioned that?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You got me, I'm a ballerina who's secretly a math nerd, so did you really think I was going to judge you over a movie?” 

There's a moment of silence and then Lydia doesn't know which one of them starts laughing first but all of a sudden she's giggling hysterically because he's just so cute like this, passionate and at the same time self-conscious, like he really thought Lydia wouldn't like him if she knew there was more to him than his car and lacrosse and his elegant hands and soft words. 

“Come on,” she says, and pats the couch. “You've set the bar very high, I'd like to see what all the fuss is about.”

Stiles grins and lopes across the room to sit on the opposite end of the couch, selecting the movie from the On Demand menu. Lydia brings her legs up so she can kick off her shoes and then stops, realizing that she isn't wearing socks, and she puts them back down, feet flat on the floor.

“Hey.” Stiles pulls the movie up but he presses pause before it can start. “Are you okay, do you need anything?”

“I'm fine.”

He gives her a disbelieving look. “Then why are you sitting like that?”

Lydia's cheeks flush. “I forgot to put on socks before I left.”

“Uh… okay?”

“So I can't take my shoes off, and I'm not going to put them on your couch like a heathen.”

“Why can't you - wait, seriously? Is this about your feet? Oh my god, Lydia, just take your shoes off, it's fine, I really don't care.”

“No, you don't understand, my toes are all completely messed up from pointe.”

“Well then you really have to take your shoes off because now I'm curious, c’mon, I can handle it.”

“No, Stiles, they're bad,” she protests weakly. “You can't look.”

“Lydia, if you don't take your shoes off I'm just going to sit here googling ballet dancers’ feet and I'll probably see way scarier shit than whatever you've got going on anyway, so you might as well just show me.”

“I have a few blisters,” she hedges. 

“I can handle it, come on, shoes off, let's just get it over with.”

“Fine,” she groans. She turns sideways on the couch so she's facing him and carefully slips her flats off. She has band-aids on her pinky toes but she has a few uncovered blisters, a deep purple bruise on one of her big toes, and a few toenails that have broken off at the bottom of the nail bed.

Stiles actually leans forward, like he's really studying her feet, reaching out to trace the bruise on her toe. “Does it hurt?”

She shakes her head, afraid to move, watching as he cups his hands around the arches of her feet. She sucks in a breath at the feeling of warm skin against hers, the soles of her feet tingling at the contact.

“They aren't that bad,” he declares. “Seriously, what was your plan, avoid being barefoot around me forever?”

She shrugs, riveted at how delicate her ankles look when he curls his fingers around them. “Maybe.”

He snorts. “Okay. You good now?”

She swallows, staring down at it, Stiles literally holding her career in his hands. “Hey,” she says thickly.

“Yeah?”

“You know I really am sorry, right?”

His expression softens and he runs one thumb under the arch of her foot. “Yeah, I know.”

She rests her cheek against the back of the couch. “I just - I really need you to know that.”

“I do,” he says softly. “I believe you.”

“Okay.” She forces herself to straighten up and flashes him a tight smile. “Movie?”

“Yeah.” Stiles sits back against the opposite end of the couch, tapping play on the remote.

Lydia leans back and stretches her legs out so they're stacked over his thighs, her feet still in his hands. “I'm ready to be impressed with a cinematic masterpiece.”

“Shh, it's starting,” he chastises, and Lydia has to swallow back a wave of laughter.

She turns her head towards the screen as the movie starts but it's hard for her to focus on it - the room is only lit by a lamp in the corner, she's alone with Stiles, and he's holding her feet in his lap as he hums along to the opening sequence, and there's this burning ache inside of her that's waking up, now that she's here, remembering what it's always like with Stiles - how he gets under her skin in all the best ways, how easily she's distracted by his sarcasm and his smiles and his warmth. His hands slide up to her ankles and Lydia tenses for a moment but then his fingers start to stroke and she relaxes back against the couch. Stiles is watching the movie, mouthing along to some of the dialogue, his fingers tracing patterns over the tops of her feet.

Lydia tries to hold still, to pretend that she's unaffected by it, but then he presses his thumbs into the base of her calves and a groan slides out of her mouth. He stops immediately, his head whipping around to look at her. “Sorry, are you okay?”

“Yeah, my hamstrings are just tight.” She blinks once at him, fluttering her eyelashes. “It feels good though.”

“Oh.” Stiles’ lips quirk up and he starts to dig his fingers in a little more.

She tips her head back and exhales, watching him through heavy lidded eyes as he begins to massage her legs. She can't remember the last time someone touched her like this, _really_ touched her, and it sends heat through her whole body. She slouches down on the couch, scooting her hips a little closer to him and Stiles works his hands up to the back of her knees. He strokes his fingers over her skin, watching her, his eyes big in the dim light, the flickering tv throwing shadows over his face.

His hands slide up to the backs of her thighs and Lydia can't take it anymore, she launches across the couch and flips over onto her knees so she can straddle his hips and kiss him. He immediately kisses her back, one hand coming up to cup her jaw. She squeezes the back of his neck, sliding her other hand under his tee shirt, desperate for contact. Stiles groans into her mouth as his lips part and she takes the opportunity to lick into his mouth, flicking her tongue against his.

His left hand slides up the back of her leg to cup her ass and she pushes her hips against him. Stiles gasps into her mouth and her eyes fly open. His eyes are wide and glassy, Lydia rolls her hips and watches his mouth drops open so she does it again; his head falls back against the arm of the couch as he makes a sharp, punched-out sound. She drops her head down to his shoulder, feeling the pound of his heart against hers that matches the sudden insistent beat between her legs. She doesn't want to stop, not when she's finally feeling something good, everything fading to the edges of her consciousness except for Stiles, his eyes and his hands and his lips that are coming down to kiss her neck.

She exhales sharply and tilts her head back, shivering when his tongue licks a line up to her jaw. She's shivery hot and she wants him everywhere, she wants to drown in this, warmth and pleasure that's such a sharp contrast to how cold she's been for so long that it feels like a shock to her system. She rocks her hips and finds that perfect spot, electricity lighting her up from the inside out as she cries into his shirt, clutching at his shoulders, her head held against his chest as he attacks the spot just under her left earlobe with his mouth.

She pants against him, twisting up the fabric of his shirt in her hands, mindlessly focused on getting closer, closer, losing herself in him, and underneath her Stiles shudders and pulls his mouth away, looking wrecked. “I thought - I thought you were supposed to be resting.”

“I don't care,” she whispers.

“Okay,” he breathes, shutting his eyes for a second. “Yeah, I get that, but” -

“Please,” she grits out, and squeezes her knees against his hips.

“I don't want to hurt you,” he protests, and Lydia freezes over him as his hands run up and down her back, wondering what he feels, fragile bones and muscles that can break so easily.

Some expression flickers across his face, too quickly for her to read it. “Hey, it's okay,” he says softly, resting up to brush her cheek with the back of his hand. “Here, just - trust me?”

She nods slowly, and lets him reach up and detangle her fingers from his shirt. Stiles coaxes her around to sit in between his legs with her back against his chest. She twists around to look up at him, uncertain.“Stiles?”

He bends down and kisses the side of her neck. “It's okay. Just - try to relax?”

She's never felt more tense in her life but she nods, trying not to squirm, the sound of her heartbeat rushing in her ears, her stomach tight. Stiles’ arms come around her and then his hands spread over her bare thighs and Lydia lets out a sigh, tipping her head back against his chest as heat sinks into her skin. He doesn't do anything for a long moment but then his fingers start to stroke, running down the insides of her thighs and the muscles in Lydia's stomach jump, contracting at the suggestion of his hands touching her somewhere else. She breathes heavily, reaching up with her left arm to curl her hand around the back of his neck, anchoring herself a little.

His fingers tease up the seam of her thighs, making her gasp and arch back against him. “Stiles.”

“Yeah,” he says in a ragged voice. 

She turns a little, just to tilt her head up at him, staring at his face as his fingers creep up her thighs, but she's so impatient and she _wants_ , so she reaches down and pulls his right hand between her legs.

Stiles blinks rapidly, cupping her through her shorts. “Is this what you want?” His voice is shaking but his hand is steady, warmth sinking through the thin fabric of her shorts. She nods and he smiles a little, dropping his head down to brush his lips against hers. “You sure?”

“I'm sure I'm getting impatient,” she says, her voice higher than normal.

He laughs, once, soft in her ear, and starts to move his hand. It's so slow, subtle, just fingers cupping her and the heel of his hand rocking against her. She shifts her legs restlessly, feeling that pulse deep in her body, a rhythm she knows how to follow instinctively like it's a beat in a song. She sighs in relief when he slides his hand up to the waistband of her shorts, turning her face into his chest as she raises her hips to help him slide them down her legs.

His fingers creep under the thin fabric of her thong and Lydia lets her legs fall open to give him room, shaking, her hands spreading over his thighs as he begins to part her. She hasn't been touched here in so long and it makes the breath catch in her chest, feeling him groan against her as he starts to move his fingers in long smooth strokes. It's easy for her to catch onto his rhythm, rolling her hips along to it. It's deep, intuitive, moving her body along to his touch as the soles of her feet begin to tingle, like she was made for his hands, made for him to take her apart. 

She pants into his shirt, her stomach tightening, everything narrowing down to the pressure building under his fingertips. She swallows back a whimper as he starts to speed up, her hips chasing his touch, every muscle in her body tensing as it really starts to come on, pleasure curling around her spine with the promise of more if she can just let go, let him give this to her, let Stiles take her higher and higher until she's nothing but liquid heat melting under his hands.

That's when it hits her, an icy wave of fear rushing up her spine that stops her cold, the realization that she's trapped here, his legs bracketing hers, his arms around her and one hand between her legs and she's halfway to coming, vulnerable and desperate and needy.

He could do anything to her like this.

Stiles noses at her throat and she realizes he's stopped moving, his hand is still on her but his fingers are still, just holding her there, as his mouth presses against her ear. “Hey, look at me, you okay?”

She blinks her eyes open and he's right there, looking a little worried and a lot turned on, and she relaxes back against him because this is Stiles, he’d never hurt her, he's never touched her in any way but with the utmost care, like he knows how fragile she really is and he’ll never break her, ever. She gets her breath back and nods, tipping her hips up into his hand. “Just - slow?”

“Okay,” he says hoarsely.

She smiles at him, because somehow he's brought her back to a place where she feels small and soft and safe here with him, his fingers tracing slow circles over her that make her muscles clench. A small noise escapes her lips at the difference, the pads of his fingers a little rough and touching her with careful determination. Her body gives in so easily, every nerve on fire, anticipation making her heart beat rabbit fast in her chest.

“Yeah,” she breathes, heat pooling in her stomach, giving in to the need to move her hips faster and faster as the pressure builds back up. “That's good.”

“You feel so good,” he mutters as she tucks her head under his chin. “God, Lydia.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, feeling like she's going to break, she's going to fly apart and her hands reach out for something desperately, something to ground herself as a harsh groan tears out of her mouth. Stiles catches her wrists in his left hand and holds them over her chest as his fingers maintain a slow steady rhythm and this time it's like fear but the good kind, more like anticipation, it makes her want to beg and plead for whatever it is her body is screaming out for, willing to fling herself off the edge of that cliff because Stiles is right here, holding her so tightly that she can feel every breath he takes right against her, his hands all over her and his lips pressing against the top of her head.

She sobs, once, buckling up into his hand, and then she comes, shattering into a million pieces, and she can hardly feel the difference between her body and his anymore as he continues to work his hand between her legs until she can't do anything but cry out in pleasure but she doesn't fall off the edge, not with Stiles holding her like this, ready to catch her before she could ever hit the ground.

She flies.


	23. back from the edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the angst is back but so is Stydia, so before you sharpen your knives at least finish the chapter ;)

On Monday morning, after she's eaten breakfast with Allison, [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528652758896) walks down the back hallway to Nurse McCall’s office, her heart racing in her chest, the form Allison signed for her after she finished her oatmeal clutched between her fingers. When she goes into the nurse’s office Nurse McCall is at her desk in jeans and a burgundy sweater, her hair pulled back from her face with a black plastic clip.

“Good morning, come on in,” she says warmly, reaching out to take the paper sheet from Lydia. “Do you have the rest?”

Lydia nods stiffly and reaches into her bag, finds the sheath of forms her mother signed for her over the weekend and hands them over. Nurse McCall flips through them before nodding and placing them on her desk. “Shoes off, hop on the scale for me.”

Lydia blinks, a little thrown off by being weighed right away, but she obediently kneels down and takes off her Nikes, walks over to the scale in her socks and starts to step onto it but Nurse McCall clicks her tongue and Lydia freezes, turning her head over her shoulder. “What?”

“Turn around first, please.”

Lydia stares at her. “You're weighing me blind?”

“Mmhm.”

“Why?”

Nurse McCall gives her a stern look, lips pressed together, and Lydia sighs, spinning around on the balls of her feet and stepping backward up into the scale. Nurse McCall doesn't tell her the number when she weighs her and Lydia doesn't ask, watching her scrawl it down in her file. Nurse McCall reaches over for the mug of coffee on her desk and takes a sip. “Okay, get on the table for me and we’ll check you out.”

Nurse McCall takes her pulse, her temperature, listens to her heartbeat, presses her fingers against Lydia’s lymph nodes, takes her hands and holds them up to the light before examining her knuckles and fingernails. “Are your ribs feeling okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Any lightheadedness, heachache, anything like that?”

“No,” Lydia answers honestly, giving Nurse McCall big pleading eyes.

_Please, please, please._

“Okay.” Nurse McCall squeezes her shoulder. “You can go to class but if you start to feel sick, dizzy, anything, you get your butt right back down here, do you hear me?”

Lydia nods meekly. “Okay.”

Nurse McCall smiles. “Good. Get out of here then, go to class.”

Lydia slides off the table, relief like a warm wave washing over her. “Thank you.”

“You earned it,” Nurse McCall says. “Keep it up.”

Lydia smiles. “Okay.”

She walks back down the hallway and takes the elevator up to the third floor for technique. When she walks into the studio [Allison's](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528653500859) head pops up from where she's sitting on the floor stretching and she beams, clapping her hands softly as Lydia walks over to her. “You're back?”

“I'm back,” Lydia confirms, and Allison squeals and throws her arms around her.

“I'm so proud of you,” she whispers in Lydia's ear.

Lydia smiles and focuses on getting her ballet slippers on, letting herself bask in Allison's pride, a new fragile feeling unfurling in her chest, that maybe she can do this, maybe she's stronger than she thought she was. Maybe she doesn't need it anymore, maybe she can be strong without having to obsessively count numbers and agonize over what to put in her body.

Maybe.

When Marin comes in the girls all walk over to the barre, she doesn't say anything to Lydia but she gives her a sharp nod and holds her gaze for a moment, and Lydia nods back and lifts her chin. Malia is still observing classes, sitting in the front of the studio with her back against the mirror and her legs stretched out in front of her. The music starts and Lydia sinks into pliés, the muscles in her legs and hips waking up as she slowly bends and straightens her knees. She lets herself relax into it a little, tries not to worry too much about her technique, trusting it'll be there, and just focuses on how her body feels, aware of every little stretch and pull, a little stiff after three days off but she softens into moving after a few minutes, glancing sideways at her reflection in the mirror.

She smiles, pleased, just to be here, back where she belongs, doing what she was made to do.

She's back.

*

“I'm supposed to have a showcase rehearsal this afternoon,” [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528653815610) tells Nurse McCall on Wednesday morning, her second checkup of the week, after she's been cleared to go to class again.

“What time?”

“Four.”

“Alright,” Nurse McCall says. “If you come down after variations and eat a snack here then you can go.”

Lydia resists rolling her eyes. “Seriously?”

“Yep,” Nurse McCall says cheerfully.

Lydia sighs. “Alright.”

She goes up to technique and dances a good class; she's gotten her legs back, her balance is solid. Pointe goes fine too and Lydia eats lunch with Allison after, watching her sign yet another form after Lydia's finished her chicken Caesar salad and sourdough roll. They go up together for variations and Lydia manages to follow along even though anxiety is starting to creep in; she needs to have a good rehearsal, she needs to prove to herself that she's back on track, that she has herself under control.

When variations is over Lydia tugs a pale pink cropped tee shirt over her leotard, pulls on her Nikes and goes back down to Nurse McCall’s office. She offers Lydia a plastic wrapped stack of crackers and a little tub of hummus with one hand, and a peanut butter flavored protein bar with the other. Lydia debates for a few long seconds, doing frantic math in her head, and then she realizes Nurse McCall is staring at her, and hastily picks the protein bar.

She sits down in a chair and quietly eats while Nurse McCall just sits there, watching her, and when she's done Nurse McCall takes the wrapper from her. “Alright, you are officially cleared for rehearsal, I’ll see you on Friday.”

“Thanks.” Lydia offers her a tight smile as she shoulders her bag and walks out of the office, and nearly runs right into Scott in the hallway.

“Whoa, hey Lydia.” Scott catches her by the shoulders, smiling as he rights them both. “How's it going?”

“Okay.”

“I heard you're back in class.”

“Yeah.” Lydia nods, reaching up to make sure her bun is securely pinned. 

“That's great,” Scott says. “I'm glad you're doing better.”

“Thanks.” She offers him a small smile. “I actually have to go, I have a showcase rehearsal.”

“Okay.” He gives her a quick one-armed hug. “See you later.”

“Bye.” Lydia waves and walks down the hallway to the back stairs, takes them down to the basement and goes inside the practice studio Peter booked for today.

He's already here, standing in the far corner of the studio facing the sound system, hooking his phone up to the speakers. Aiden's on the floor in front of the mirrors doing push ups near the door, his grey sweatpants rolled up over his calves, the veins in his arms bulging. “Hey,” he says cautiously, dropping down onto his stomach as Lydia sits down next to him.

“Hey.” She unzips her bag and pulls out everything she needs, gauze, athletic tape, toe pads, and her pointe shoes.

“Feeling okay?” he asks quietly.

She starts taping her blisters and nods. “Yeah.”

He sits up, watching as she finishes taping her feet and pulls on her toe pads. “We still need to talk about what we're going to do.”

She shoots him a sharp look as she unwinds the ribbons of her pointe shoes and slides her feet into them. “How about we see how rehearsal goes first?”

“Lydia” -

“We're so close,” she whispers. “Aiden, think about it.”

He stares her down, jaw locked. “If he says anything to you this time, he's done.”

“Okay.”

“I'm serious.”

“Okay.”

Aiden flips up into a crouch and offers her his hand to help her stand up. “I've got your back, okay?” he says in a low voice.

Lydia reaches out and squeezes his hip. “I know.”

“Okay, let's begin!” Peter claps his hands together. “From your second solo please, Lydia, and then we’ll work out the last of the final section.”

Lydia nods and walks over to her spot for her solo. The piece is almost finished, after she does her solo she and Aiden do a last pas de deux, mostly repeating choreography from the middle section but faster, they just have to finish out the final counts and the choreography will be complete.

She runs through her solo a few times in a row, relieved when Peter doesn't do anything but nod crisply and say _again_ until he decides to move on. Aiden comes in behind her and they go through the pas de deux. Lydia leaps up and Aiden catches her, he puts her down for an assisted arabesque and then lifts her up again, swings her down and leans her back over his thigh. Lydia points her toes and arches her back, her body a long line, arms sweeping over her head so Aiden can grab her by the wrists and pull her up to relevé. They do a series of quick assisted pirouettes, Lydia opens up her leg for a rond de jambe en lair into another arabesque and Aiden steps back, leaving her there holding herself up en pointe with her free leg pointed up at the ceiling. After a few moments Lydia comes down and leaps up for a tour jeté, does a flashy jump sequence towards stage left and spins around to face Aiden where he comes down from a saut de basque.

They both stop there, that's as far as they've gotten with the choreography. Peter stops the music and curls his fingers at them, and they both walk across the studio over to him, Aiden's arm coming protectively around Lydia's shoulders. Peter tilts his head, observing them both with those icy blue eyes. “Have either of you ever done a one armed seat press before?”

Lydia shakes her head, her heart clenching in her chest. A one armed seated press is an advanced lift, the girl jumps straight up into the air and the boy pushes her up over his head with one hand between her legs.

“I did it when I was with Deucalion at Alpha Academy.” Aiden sounds hesitant. “You want us to do it?”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “You said you can do anything, didn't you?”

Aiden glances sideways at Lydia. “It's kind of dangerous, if she tilts forward she could fall.”

“She won't do that,” Peter says calmly. “Will you Lydia?”

She shakes her head, feeling a little dizzy. She swallows, trying to remind herself that she's strong, she can do this, she has to do this. “I know what to do.”

“Very good.” Peter nods, looking pleased. “We’ll work in the center, Lydia, from stage left, run to build up some momentum, height is important.”

“Okay,” she agrees.

“You're going to spot her, right?” Aiden asks sharply.

“Of course,” Peter says mildly. “But you're not going to drop her, are you?”

Aiden bristles. “I've never dropped anyone.”

Lydia leans into Aiden and touches her fingers against his wrist. “I'm ready when you are.”

He sighs, dropping his chin to his chest. “You sure you want to do this?”

“Of course she's sure,” Peter says briskly. “Come on, let's go.”

Lydia squeezes Aiden's arm and walks across the studio to stage left, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Peter says something to Aiden and he nods, shaking out his arms as he gets into a wide stance facing the mirror. Peter steps back a few feet and waves at Lydia. “Whenever you're ready, darling.”

Lydia swings her arms, does a few quicks jumps to build up some momentum and then she runs down the studio towards Aiden. She turns away from him at the last second as she jumps straight up in the air as hard as she can, spreading her legs apart enough for Aiden to catch her between her legs and push her up above his head, her entire body held in the palm of his hand and sun flashes across the mirror and suddenly she isn't here anymore, she can't feel anything except a sudden burst of fear, where is she -

 _She's seventeen and it's a sunny afternoon and she's balanced on Jackson's shoulders_ -

 _She’s trapped in the studio, dangling above the floor in the dark with teeth at the back of her neck_ -

_whereishe whereisshe whereisshe_ \- 

The breath gets sucked out of her and Lydia loses her balance enough that she starts to tilt forward. She wobbles in Aiden's grip and she chokes on air, her hands reaching out desperately, for something, anything, but Peter doesn't reach up to catch her, just watches her with cold calculated eyes as Aiden swears under his breath and grips her left leg with his free hand.

“Don't move!” he orders. "I've got you, just hold still.”

Lydia lets her arms drop and forces herself to pull in her core, keeping her legs soft and feet pointed down at the floor, Aiden's left hand wrapped around her calf. “I want to come down,” she says shakily.

“You're fine,” Peter dismisses. “You need to learn how to do this.”

The walls spin and Lydia curls her fingers into her palms, gasping for breath as her lungs seize up. “Take me down, I want to come down.”

“Okay.” Aiden squeezes her leg. “I've got to let go” -

“Don't let go!” She starts to cry, hot shameful tears sliding down her cheeks. “Don't let go, don't let go!”

“I'll catch you,” Aiden says reassuringly. “But I've got to let you go, it's the safest way to get you down.”

“No,” she argues, choking down sobs as she blinks furiously, her cheeks burning in humiliation. “Don't, Aiden, don't.”

“Let her go,” Peter instructs, giving Lydia a disdainful glance.

“No, Aiden” -

He lets go of her.

Lydia plummets straight down and Aiden catches her easily by the waist with both hands and sets her down gently on the ground. As soon as she feels the floor under her shoes she collapses to the ground, gasping weakly for air as the studio spins around her. She presses her cheek against the floor, twitching when Aiden touches her shoulder. “It's okay,” he says softly. “We won't do it again.”

“Of course you will,” Peter argues. “She'll be fine.”

“I don't think you heard me,” Aiden says firmly. “We aren't doing this again, you have to come up with something else.”

“No, I don't think I will,” Peter drawls. “I asked you to do this and you do what I tell you. Get up, Lydia.”

He reaches down for her but Aiden jumps in front of her before Peter can touch her; Lydia curls up behind his legs, cowering, dizzy and breathless, her body suddenly icy cold as she starts to shiver. When she looks up at Aiden he has his hands curled into fists, shoulders rolled back like he's ready for a fight.

“Don't touch her!” Aiden snaps. “You're not going to make her do this.”

“And why not?” Peter asks, his voice so frosty it burns.

“Because if you make Lydia do this again I'll tell Derek that you dropped her in that rehearsal,” Aiden retorts.

Lydia can't even react because she can't get enough air into her lungs to get a breath, fingertips scrabbling against the floor as Peter and Aiden argue over her, their voices blurring together until it sounds like she's underwater, nothing but a roaring in her ears as time spins out, leaving her suspended in icy water, gasping desperately for oxygen. She distantly wonders why she's so cold, why her lungs refuse to open, why she can't stop crying, why is this happening, what's happening, what's happening -

“Hey, hey, Lydia, it's okay, look at me.” Aiden crouches down next to her, one of his hands shockingly warm on her shoulder. “It's okay, he's gone. Shit, you're freezing.”

He tries to pull her up but Lydia crumples over in his lap, shivering so hard her teeth clack together, her fingers twisting into his white tee shirt. She doesn't know what's happening to her body and it's terrifying, feeling this out of control, this disconnected from herself. “I'm - I can't,” she grits out. “I can't - c-cold, I'm so c-cold.”

“Okay, okay.” Aiden rubs his hands up and down her arms. “Hey, let's get you out of here, okay?”

_At least Scott's at HSB most days if something happens._

Stiles’ voice pops into her head out of nowhere and it feels like a miracle, a blessing, a map, a way out. Scott's here, in Deaton's office. 

“Sc-Scott,” she whispers. “Please.”

“Scott McCall? Deaton’s intern?”

Lydia nods, pushing her face into his shoulder so he can't see her cry, remembering the way Scott had walked right into partnering class that day and picked her up while everyone around them gawked and stared, held her tightly against his chest and whispered reassurances to her all the way down to the ambulance. Scott will know what's wrong with her, he has to. Scott will know what to do.

“Okay, put your arms around my neck,” Aiden instructs. “Come on, it's okay.”

She can hardly feel her arms but she does what he tells her, clenching her teeth as he rises to his feet with her held bridal-style in his arms. Aiden walks them across the studio to the mirrors and Lydia digs her nails into his neck when he bends down and lets go of her with one arm to scoop up their gym bags. 

“I've got you,” he mutters, adjusting his grip on her as he slings the bags over his shoulder. “It's okay, you're gonna be okay.”

Aiden carries her out of the studio and all the way up the stairs, takes the back hallway down towards Deaton's office while Lydia shakes and gasps in his arms, black spots exploding in her vision when he starts to run. “McCall!” he shouts, sounding a little panicked. “Hey, McCall!”

Scott comes running out of Deaton's office, his mouth dropping open when he sees them. “What happened?”

“I don't know, we were practicing a lift in rehearsal and she just freaked out!” Aiden yells.

“Okay, come on, bring her back here.” Scott ushers them into the back room of Deaton's office. “Here, put her down on the table.”

Lydia clings to Aiden as he deposits her on the edge of the massage table, her breath coming in sharp painful bursts. Aiden looks absurdly worried, his thumbs rubbing circles over her wrists. “She's freezing man, I don't know what's wrong with her, she just lost it.”

Scott opens a cabinet and pulls out a thin blue blanket. “Go get Allison,” he orders, and when Aiden doesn't move Scott walks over to him and pushes him lightly. “Go!” he shouts.

Aiden detangles Lydia's hands from his shirt and kisses her forehead. “I'll be right back,” he murmurs, and flashes Scott a look Lydia doesn't know how to interpret before turning and running out of the office.

Scott hops up onto the table behind her and very quickly wraps the blanket around her so her flailing arms are trapped by her sides. She gasps, choking on air, and Scott's arms come around her from behind, pulling her back against his chest. 

“Breathe,” he demands. “In and out.”

She shakes her head because she can't, she's trapped under icy water, if she tries to breathe again she’ll drown. “C-can't.”

“Yes you can. Just breathe with me okay? In.” Scott takes a deep breath in and Lydia feels his chest expand against her back. She gasps pitifully for air and feels him exhale against her. “Now out,” he instructs.

She breathes out and inhales too fast, her lungs on fire, and Scott readjusts his arms, holding her very tightly but it's oddly comforting, she knows she can't break like this, not when she's being held so close to him, she can't do anything right now but try to remember how to breathe.

“Slow,” he whispers. “Slows, slow.”

She blinks heavily, suddenly exhausted or maybe she's about to pass out from lack of oxygen. She remembers standing by the beach with him the weekend they went to the lake house, his arms around her as her lungs smoldered and burned, fire spreading through her ribcage, and then her lungs expand, like they've suddenly remembered how to open.

“Good,” he says quietly, his voice so soft, like he's afraid of scaring her. “Good job. Let's do it again, okay?”

She doesn't know how long it takes for her to get into the rhythm of it, her eyes squeezed tight as she and Scott sit there together, just breathing, his arms still holding her very tightly so she can't fall, she can't do anything but drop her head back against his shoulder and shake and shake as she slowly gets her breath back.

“Ohmygod, ohmygod, are you okay?” [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528665421305) runs into the room with Aiden trailing behind her, skidding to a stop in front of Lydia, her face white. “Lydia, talk to me, tell me what happened!”

Lydia blinks watery eyes at her, lightheaded, shivering under the blanket. Allison looks terrified, her big eyes glassy with unshed tears and it hurts, to see how scared she is, how much _Lydia_ is scaring her.

Lydia turns her face half into Scott’s chest, hiding. “I'm sorry,” she whisper.

A tear rolls down Allison's cheek. “It's okay, just tell me what's going on.”

Across the room Aiden is leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded across his chest. “You should tell them,” he says gently.

“What?” Allison whirls around to stare at him. “What are you talking about? Lydia, what is he talking about?”

Aiden ignores her, holding Lydia's gaze. “They're your friends, they can help you,” he says softly. “You need to tell them.” He raises his eyebrows at her and ambles out of the room, and Allison turns back around, reaching out to cup Lydia's shoulders.

“Tell us what?” Allison asks. “What was he talking about?”

Lydia blinks back tears, the sound of water rushing in her ears again, ice freezing the blood in her veins. She's too tired to lie anymore, she can't make herself do it again.

She's so tired.

“Lydia,” Allison prompts. “It's okay. You can tell us.”

Lydia swallows back bile, her heart hammering painfully in her chest. “Something happened. Before,” she whispers, her voice coming out rusty.

“What do you mean?” Allison asks. “When?”

“In a showcase rehearsal. I never - I didn't tell anyone.”

“Okay.” Allison bites her bottom lip for a second. “What happened?”

Lydia shivers, shaking her head as words spin around in her head and die on her tongue before she can open her mouth. Scott squeezes his arms against her and makes a soft shushing noise in her ear. “It's okay, you're safe,” he whispers. “You can tell us.”

“Lydia.” Allison's voice cracks. “It's okay. Just tell us what happened.” 

She's so tired of lying, of pretending she isn't afraid. Whatever Peter can do to her, will do, when he finds out that she told, how can it be worse than this? How can anything be worse than this, broken and bundled up like a child, helpless, choking on fear?

Lydia inhales sharply against Scott, a slow settling wave of acceptance coming over her, that she's doing this, that she's been pushed too far and she has to let them pull her back from the edge before she falls and breaks into so many pieces that they won't be able to put her back together again. “Peter - Peter did something to me.”

Allison falls forward, burying her face in Lydia's shoulder and wrapping her arms over her and Scott so Lydia is sandwiched in between them, safely held in the overlapping circle of their arms. “Okay,” Allison whispers. “I'm listening.”

*

Aiden catches up with [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528666176092) and [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528665829510) the next day when they're leaving the cafeteria after lunch, pushing past a few level fives to meet them in the lobby. “Hey,” he says breathlessly, looking at Allison. “Can I talk to Lydia?”

“Sure.” Allison gives him a polite smile but she doesn't move, positioning herself in front of Lydia like a bodyguard.

He gives her an annoyed look. “In private?”

Allison and Aiden engage in a strange staring contest for a minute before Allison gives in, squeezing Lydia's shoulder before stepping away. “I'll see you guys in partnering?”

“Yeah,” Lydia reassures her, and gives her a hug. Allison had cried for hours yesterday after Lydia told her and Scott what happened that day with Peter, like it was somehow her fault, like she could have done something about it, like she should've been able to protect Lydia from him. “Go take a shower, I'll see you in a bit.”

Allison squeezes her tight before releasing her, reaching out to smooth Lydia's hair back from her forehead. “Okay.”

Aiden tilts his head towards one of the couches in the lobby and Lydia follows him over to it, perching on the arm of the sofa. “What's up?” she asks, not quite able to meet his eyes, flushing when she thinks about how she acted yesterday, humiliation threatening to make the grilled turkey sandwich she just ate crawl up her throat.

Aiden rests his hand gently on her thigh. “We need to go talk to Derek.”

“Aiden” -

“Lydia.” His voice is sharp, when she looks up at him his eyes are dark and stormy. “I'm telling him with or without you.”

She reaches down and takes his hand off her leg. “You can't do that. I'm already in trouble for what happened in partnering last week, if he thinks I'm being difficult” -

“We don't have to tell him everything,” he counters. “What happened yesterday on its own should be enough, he made you do a lift you'd never done before, it was dangerous, he didn't care that you were scared. That has to be enough to at least get Derek to tell him to back off.”

_What you feel, what you think, it means nothing to me._

“What if he doesn't believe us?” she whispers.

Aiden works his jaw. “Then we’ll talk to Marin.”

Lydia exhales slowly. “Okay. Fine. We only tell him about yesterday though.” She can't bear going through the whole sad story again after telling Scott and Allison yesterday, which was enough to make her feel raw and vulnerable, like her skin was being peeled off her body, leaving her bloody and breakable.

“Great, let's go.”

“Now?” She gives him an incredulous look.

Aiden suddenly looks a little sheepish. “I already made an appointment with him.”

“Aiden!”

He grabs her wrists and gently pulls her off the couch. “Come on, let's go.”

Lydia lets out a sigh and follows him across the lobby over to the elevator. They take it up to the second floor and walk down the hallway to Derek's office. Aiden knocks with his fist and the door swings open; Derek's sitting behind his desk, two chairs pulled in front of it like when she had the meeting with the staff here last week.

“Hey, come on in guys,” Derek says, closing his laptop and pushing it to the side of his desk.

Lydia follows Aiden into Derek's office and sits down next to him in one of the chairs, folding her hands nervously in her lap. Aiden slouches down in his chair, glancing sideways at her, and Lydia shrugs helplessly, unsure of what to do now that they're here.

Derek raises an eyebrow at them. “Do either of you want to tell me what's going on?”

Aiden rubs his forehead with the palm of his hand for a second. “We're having a problem. With our showcase rehearsals.”

Derek picks up a pen and twirls it between his fingers. “What kind of problem?”

Aiden glances sideways at her before looking back at Derek. “We're having a problem with Peter.”

“Can you be more specific?”

Aiden locks his jaw. “He's making us do a lift neither of us are comfortable with and Lydia nearly fell yesterday, is that specific enough for you?”

The pen slips through Derek's fingers and flips onto the desk. “Which lift?”

Aiden gives Derek a look of disbelief. “That's not the point. He's reckless, he's putting her in danger, and after what happened to Lydia last year” -

“Aiden,” she hisses, horrified.

Derek tilts his head at her. “Is this true?”

Lydia freezes, caught in his pale eyes for a moment before she drops her gaze to her lap and nods. “Yes.”

Derek sighs loudly. “Alright. Lydia, can you give Aiden and I a few minutes alone?”

Her head snaps up. “Why?”

“Because I asked you to,” Derek says evenly.

“It's okay,” Aiden says softly. “Go, I'll see you in partnering.”

She blinks in disbelief, she has no idea the kinds of things Aiden might tell Derek without her there to stop him. “Aiden…”

“It's okay,” he says quickly. “Go, class is starting soon. I'll see you there.”

“Okay,” she breathes, her chest tightening in panic. 

She gets up and Derek gives her, if not an actual smile then something close to it, some gentle expression that she doesn't know how to respond to. Lydia turns around and stumbles out of his office, blinking furiously. She walks down the hallway with one hand trailing along the wall, her head spinning, wondering what Aiden is telling Derek right now, what Derek could possibly do about it anyway that wouldn't have terrible consequences for her. She takes the elevator up to the fourth floor and walks down the hallway to Studio D. A few of her classmates are already here, Ethan and Danny are stretching together at the barre and Allison and Isaac are sprawled out on their backs on the floor a few feet away from where they've dumped their stuff. Lydia drops her bag down against the wall next to Allison's, grabs her pointe shoes and walks over to her and Isaac.

“Hey,” Allison says, patting the space next to her hip for Lydia to sit down next to her. “Everything okay?”

Lydia stretches out on the floor and lays her head on Allison's stomach, her pointe shoes clutched in her hands. “I don't know.”

Allison reaches down and pets the top of her head like she's a puppy. “You want to talk about it?”

Lydia shakes her head and presses her cheek into the crest of Allison's hipbone. After a minute Allison and Isaac go back to talking about their latest rehearsal and Lydia tunes them out, pulling her feet in towards her chest to get her pointe shoes on. When Aiden comes in Lydia jumps up and follows him down the floor of the studio, waiting for him to put his bag down and take his shoes off.

“Well?” she says impatiently, when he pulls his sweatshirt over his head without saying anything. “Are you going to tell me what happened or not?”

Aiden shrugs. “He just asked me a couple of questions.”

“What kinds of questions?”

His eyes shift away from her. “Just about how Peter runs rehearsals.”

“And?”

“He said he'd handle it,” Aiden mutters.

Lydia's eyes go wide. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I don't know,” he says quietly. “That's all he said.”

“Oh my god,” she whispers. Derek could replace her, he could pull the whole piece. He's in charge, he could do anything.

“Hey,” Aiden says softly. “Don't look like that, it'll be okay.”

“You don't know that,” she spits, and stomps back over to Allison and Isaac.

Jennifer comes in and they all gather together in the center but Lydia refuses to talk to Aiden for the entire class, working with him in silence, panic humming under her skin like a song she can't get out of her head, loud and insistent, obscuring everything else in her head until it's the only thing she can think about.

*

[Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528666511463) doesn't sleep well that night, she keeps waking up with her breath caught in her chest, disoriented in the dark, invisible teeth scraping over her neck. After awhile she can't take it anymore, she tiptoes into the bathroom and does crunches on the floor until the alarm on her phone goes off. She takes off her clothes and steps into the shower, leaning her head against the cool tiles as hot water washes over her. When she gets out she washes her face, blow dries her hair and braids it into a bun at the nape of her neck, and puts on tinted moisturizer and concealer to cover the circles under her eyes. She wraps a towel around herself and steps into the room; [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528666665972) is climbing out of bed, her oversized tee shirt slipping down her left shoulder.

“Hey.” Allison stretches and yawns spectacularly. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Lydia murmurs, and crosses the room to change into her leotard for class.

Allison yanks off her tee shirt and steps out of her boxer shorts. “You okay?”

Lydia pulls up the straps of her leotard and digs a pair of tights out of her drawer. “Just tired.”

Allison stands there hesitantly, naked in the middle of their room. “You sure?”

“I'm fine, go change, I have to go to see Nurse McCall before technique, remember?”

Allison blinks sleepily at her. “Right. Yeah, give me a minute.”

Lydia pulls on a pale blue muscle [tank](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528667217598) over her leotard and laces up her Nikes while Allison jumps into her leotard and layers a white mesh Adidas top and dark blue [leggings](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528667439122) over it. Lydia scoops up her bag and waits for Allison to put on her Adidas and tie her hair up into a bun. 

“Okay, I'm almost ready,” Allison announces, and then spends another five minutes brushing her teeth and putting on makeup while Lydia leans up against their door waiting for her, digging her thumbs against the faint throbbing in her temples.

When Allison's ready they go down to the cafeteria for breakfast. Lydia hasn't heard anything else about what's happening with Peter, what Derek is going to do, what _handling it_ can possibly mean, and it's fully distracting her. She grabs a yogurt mindlessly and when Allison shoots her a look she selects a banana to go with it. She gets a cup of coffee and goes through the line with Allison, keeping her eyes peeled for Aiden. She gets her ID scanned and follows Allison over to a table by the windows, finally spotting Aiden at a table in the far corner of the cafeteria with Ethan and Danny.

Lydia catches his gaze and Aiden holds one hand up at her in greeting before shaking his head minutely. _Nothing yet_. 

Lydia sighs and sits down across from Allison, cradling her mug of coffee in her hands as Allison takes a huge bite of cereal, swallows, and fixes Lydia with an inquisitive look. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“I told you, I'm just tired.”

A little wrinkle appears in Allison's forehead. “Are you sure? It's been a rough week, I'd understand if” -

“I said I'm fine,” Lydia snaps.

Allison stirs her spoon through her cereal. “Okay,” she says meekly. “Sorry for caring.”

Lydia exhales. “Sorry. It's not you, I'm just worried.”

Allison's eyes soften. “I'm sure Derek will take care of it. You told him what Peter did, he'd be crazy to let him stay after that, right?”

“Right,” Lydia whispers, and peels the lid off her yogurt.

She takes slow small bites, forcing herself to swallow even though she doesn't have an appetite. She can't believe how naive she was only a few days ago, believing she could do this, that she was strong enough on her own to handle everything. She doesn't feel strong now, she feels sick, empty, all of her nasty secrets exposed.

“Lydia.” Her head snaps up, she can tell by Allison's expression that she's said her name more than once.

“Sorry,” Lydia apologizes. “What?”

“I need to go talk to Isaac for a second, okay?”

“Yeah.” Lydia flashes her a big fake smile. “That's fine.”

“Uh-huh. Okay, be right back.” Allison takes a big gulp of orange juice and slides out of her chair, weaving in between tables over to where Isaac's eating pancakes with Boyd and Erica.

Lydia stares down at her breakfast, at her almost full container of yogurt and her banana. She can't eat it all, it seems unfathomable right now, when she's already so weak, her abs aching from all those crunches, still feeling hot with shame every time she thinks about what happened on Wednesday, how she'd cried in front of everyone, reduced to a boneless ball of fear and tears, a pathetic scared little girl.

In one fluid motion she picks up her banana and tears off the peel, breaks off a few small pieces and drops them onto her tray before wrapping up the rest of it up in her napkin, her heart suddenly pounding. When Allison's come back Lydia's finishing up her yogurt, she flashes the empty container at her and takes a final sip of coffee. “Can you sign my form?”

“Sure.” Lydia watches Allison fill it out, torn between guilt and relief, falling back into the familiar illusion of control, of power.

What's the point of following the rules when she's probably going to get kicked out of the showcase, anyway? She can't prove Peter really did anything, everything rests on Derek's ability to be impartial, to take the word of two teenagers over his uncle, one of his last living relatives. Derek's in charge of the company now but Peter's still Peter, Lydia’s almost too afraid to hope that Derek will choose her over him. The plan is still to go to Marin if Derek doesn't do anything but Lydia doesn't know if she can handle going over the whole story again, when she could be dismissed as hysterical, dramatic, just a silly girl who can't take it. But Marin fought for her in that meeting, maybe she'll be on Lydia's side but the only way to know for sure is to tell her, if Derek hasn't already, he's the director of the company but Marin's still in charge of the school, he'd have to tell her, wouldn't he?

How many times is Lydia going to have to bleed for them, for this, her dream fading further and further from the realm of possibility with every day?

By the time she gets to Nurse Mccall’s office she's worked herself into an anxious ball of nerves, she can barely pay attention as Nurse McCall examines her and declares her fit to take class.

“Can I practice this weekend?” Lydia asks her. It's the only thing she has, if she can still dance well Marin won't let Derek drop her, she thinks, it's the only thing stopping her from completely spinning out, from hurling herself right back over the edge.

Nurse McCall tilts her head. "As long as you don't overdo it, I suppose that's alright. Take it slow, listen to your body.”

“Okay.”

“Hey.” Lydia stops halfway to the door and looks back at Nurse McCall, who smiles. “You've made a lot of progress this week, let's keep going forward, okay?”

Lydia thinks about the banana hidden in her napkin, waking up last night halfway into a panic attack, crying desperately on the floor of the studio in front of Peter, how she did everything they told her to do all week and it didn't protect her, it didn't make her stronger, it wasn't enough to stop her from breaking. 

She shoulders her bag and gives Nurse McCall an obedient nod. “Okay.”

*

When she's done with class for the day Lydia goes up to her room and takes her second shower of the day, changes into a pair of skinny jeans and a cropped grey tee [shirt](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528667864786), and packs up her bags for the weekend. She's just sliding her feet into her black ankle boots when [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528668044580) comes into their room, her cheeks a little flushed.

“Hey, are you leaving?” she asks Lydia, tossing her bag onto her bed.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, okay, um, do you have a second first?”

Lydia grabs her cross-body bag and makes sure she has her wallet and phone before snapping it shut. “Sure, what's up?”

Allison shifts back and forth, her Adidas squeaking against the floor. “I got into UC Davis.”

Lydia stares at her. “What?”

Allison gives her a small proud smile. “I kind of applied at the last minute, I wasn't really sure if I was going to get in.”

“But you did,” Lydia says through numb lips.

“Yeah.” Allison looks so happy, and Lydia just _knows_ all of a sudden, what's happening.

Allison's leaving her.

“Lydia,” Allison says softly. “It's okay. I'm still going to see you all the time.”

“But - what about the showcase?”

“I'm still doing the showcase,” Allison says. “I'm just not - come on, we all know I was never going to get a spot in the company, anyway.”

“But - you can't just quit,” Lydia argues weakly.

Allison sighs and sinks down on the edge of her bed to take her shoes off. “I know you probably can't understand this but it doesn't feel like I'm quitting. I love ballet but - there's so many other things I might love too, and I'll never know until I see what's out there, and Scott's going to Davis” -

“So you're quitting ballet for your boyfriend.”

“Of course not!” Allison looks indignant. “I mean, yeah, of course I want to be with Scott. But I'm not doing this for him. I'm doing this for me. I need to do this, okay?”

Lydia shrugs helplessly, because it's clear Allison's made up her mind already. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Allison reaches up and shakes out her ponytail. “Look, my dad is coming down for the weekend, he and Nurse McCall are going to take me and Scott out to dinner to celebrate. Apparently they've reached some kind of temporary truce.” Allison's mouth twists and Lydia notes that she didn't mention her mother. “We can both bring a friend, Stiles is coming, so do you think you could come with him and at least pretend to be supportive for one night?”

“I just can't believe you didn't tell me you were applying there.”

Allison looks a little exasperated. “You've kind of been dealing with a lot, and I knew if I told you this is how you would react.”

“Well excuse me for having an opinion,” Lydia snaps.

“Don't be mad,” Allison pleads. “I'm still finishing out the year here, I'm still your best friend, please don't look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I'm doing something terrible to you.”

Lydia's eyes sting. “Sorry.”

“Shit.” Allison crosses the room and throws her arms around her. “It's going to be okay,” she whispers. “Promise.”

Lydia sniff and hugs Allison back. “I'm happy for you,” she whispers back. 

“No you're not,” Allison murmurs.

“I will be,” Lydia amends. “Give me a minute to let the shock wear off first, okay?”

“Fair,” Allison declares, releasing her. “So you'll come? To dinner?”

Lydia nods and reaches for her bags. “Of course.”

“Okay.” Allison looks relieved. “Thanks.”

“Sure. I've got to go, okay?”

“Right.” Allison leans in and gives her another quick hug. “See you tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Lydia manages a smile, collects her bags and takes everything down to her mother's office. 

She plays on her phone while her mother finishes up a phone call, wondering what it means that she didn't see Derek all day, when she talked to Aiden in partnering he still hadn't heard anything. When she opens her email her rehearsal schedule for the upcoming week is sitting in her inbox, Lydia taps it and sees that she and Aiden have been assigned a practice studio next Tuesday afternoon. She's so relieved she almost bursts into tears, Derek can't be pulling them, not if she still still has rehearsal.

Then she realizes what it must really mean, to be scheduled normally, her name right there in black and white next to Peter and Aiden's: it's not over, Derek hasn't stopped anything, she's going to have to go back into that room with Peter Hale again, and a familiar icy wave of fear washes over her.

“Come on sweetheart, time to go.” Her mother has her trench coat on, her tote bag slung over her shoulder. “Are you ready?”

Lydia nods and pockets her phone. “Yeah.”

They stop at the cafe again for takeout, Lydia turns the radio up and leans her head against the window as they drive home. When they get there Lydia follows her mom listlessly into the house, dropping her weekender and her dance bag at the bottom of the steps before wandering into the kitchen. Her mother has ordered her another power bowl, Lydia fills up a glass of water and drinks it standing up against the kitchen, watching her mother get a bottle of Chardonnay out of the fridge. She fills up a wine glass and Lydia follows her over to the table, reluctantly opening the lid of her entree and picking up her fork.

She stirs her food around, swallowing back nausea when she thinks about having to do that lift again, how close she came to falling. She separates out the mango from the chicken, piles up the avocado slices in one corner and scrapes all the shredded carrots into a little orange ball.

“What are you doing?” her mother snaps. “Eat your dinner.”

“I'm not hungry,” Lydia mutters. “My stomach hurts.”

Her mother raises an eyebrow at her. “Really?”

Lydia drops her fork onto the table and stands up. “Really.” She picks up her phone and stomps out of the kitchen, grabs her bags in the foyer and runs up the stairs and locks herself in her room.

She takes her laptop out of her bag and turns it on, opens up her music and hits play without even looking at the song first, turning up the volume until it's blasting through the speakers. She takes off her jeans and pulls on a pair of black Alo [leggings](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528668162939), unpacks her bags, unrolls her yoga mat and gets down on the floor. She does her entire abs series, leg lifts, planks, works her body until her mind is blank, she doesn't think about Allison quitting dance and leaving her behind, her upcoming rehearsal, what Nurse McCall will do on Monday when she sees the empty spaces on her form.

Lydia stays in her room until she hears the telltale click of her mother's heels walking down the hallway and the creak of the door to the master bedroom swinging shut. Lydia tiptoes out of her room and sneaks downstairs, goes into the kitchen and stands in front of the fridge, the door open, light spilling onto the floor in the dark room. Her stomach growls but she doesn't eat anything, she just looks, marveling at how quickly she slid backwards, how she barely lasted a week before reverting back into all her old comforting habits.

She slams the refrigerator door shut and presses her forehead against it, her mind spinning so fast it makes her dizzy. Allison is officially quitting, Lydia has a rehearsal on Tuesday and she's going to have to do that lift, unless she fails her physical on Monday, in which case she's completely screwed. She paces in circles around the kitchen island, fighting the overwhelming feeling that she's trapped, that she's never going to escape this, not when Peter is still her choreographer, still lives in her head, sneaking up on her when she's at her weakest.

The claustrophobia starts to become too much, thoughts colliding in her head, and Lydia has to get out, she has to do something. She walks back to the foyer and quickly puts on her Nikes, snatches her mother's car keys from the dish on the entry table and goes outside. She takes great big gulps of cool night air, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes for a moment before running down to the driveway and getting into the car. She drives to Stiles’ house on autopilot, parks in the driveway next to his Jeep and goes up the walk to his front porch. She rings the bell, and after a few agonizing minutes the door swings open.

“Lydia?” Stiles is wearing a red and blue flannel and jeans, he's barefoot, hair sticking up like he's been running his fingers through it. “What are you doing here, are you okay?”

Her eyes fill with tears. “I don't know.”

“You want to come on?” he asks softly.

“Okay.” She steps into the house and Stiles moves around her to close the door.

“What's wrong?” he asks, locking the door behind them. “Did something happen?”

The walls spin and Lydia's knees buckle, she slides down the wall and drops her head to her knees. “I don't know,” she says again, and breaks into sobs. 

It's like a storm coming out of nowhere, raveging everything in its path. Lydia chokes on her own tears, panic flooding her system like it's happening all over again, falling to pieces on the floor of the studio because everything always seems to come back to that, that underneath all her bravado and lip gloss and attitude she's just a broken girl who got dropped like she's something worthless.

“Whoa, hey, okay.” Stiles sits down next to her on the floor and Lydia tenses when his arm comes around her. “Lydia, it's okay.”

She presses her head against her knees, curling up into a ball under the weight of his hand on her back, gasping for air, hating herself for being so weak, for showing up here like this, when her body is here but her mind is somewhere else, trapped in the dark, waiting to be broken again and again and again because that's what people do to her, they leave her and they break her and then they demand that she get up so she can let them do it again and it's never going to stop, it's never going to be over -

“Lydia!” Stiles’ voice sounds sharp and she finches on instinct.

“I'm sorry,” she gasps. She clenches her hands into fists and tries to just breathe but she can't stop crying, she's lost control, she's on the verge of losing everything.

“It's okay, hey, c’mere.” Stiles pulls her into his chest and wraps his arms around her, one hand spreading over the back of her head. “You don't have to apologize.”

She sobs into his flannel, her fingers clutching the fabric as everything crashes around in her head, making her dizzy. She pulls her legs in towards her chest and Stiles shifts her into his lap, one hand running up and down her spine. “It's okay,” he whispers. 

“It's not,” she cries. “I have to - I can't, I can't do it.”

“Do what? Lydia, what are you talking about?”

She lifts her head and more tears spill over, his face a blur of whisky eyes and moles. “He's making me do a lift,” she chokes out. “I'm so scared, Stiles, I'm so scared all the time and I can't, I can't do it, I don't know what to do, what am I going to do” -

“Hey, Lydia, look at me.” Stiles cups her cheeks in his hands and her mouth falls shut, staring helplessly up at him. “You're okay, just talk to me, tell me what happened.”

Her face crumples. “He dropped me,” she sobs. 

“What?” His eyes go very wide, his palms warm on her skin. “Who are you talking about? Aiden?”

“No.” She squeezes her eyes shut for a second and hot tears roll down her cheeks. “Peter.”

“Your _choreographer?_ ”

She nods her head against his hands, her breath coming in short desperate pants. “It - was a while ago. I thought - I thought I could handle it but…”

“Why didn't you tell me?” he asks.

She stares at him. “I'm supposed to tell you when my choreographer drops me?”

“Yes!” he shouts, looking exasperated, and Lydia flinches and shuts her eyes.

“I'm sorry,” she whispers, and starts crying again, because she's broken, she's been smashed into pieces, reduced to broken bones and blood and tears.

Stiles sighs heavily. “Lydia, I need you to look at me, okay?”

She can't, she's too ashamed, she shakes her head again but then Stiles curls over her and kisses her forehead. “It's okay, come on, you can do it Lydia, just look at me for a second.”

She manages to blink her eyes open; he exhales like he's relieved and runs his thumbs under her lower eyelashes, collecting teardrops. “You need to tell someone what happened. This is eating you up inside, clearly, you can't just let him get away with this, you have to tell someone at school what he did to you.”

“I did,” she sniffs. “I don't know what they're going to do.”

“Good, okay, that's something at least.” Stiles sighs heavily and pulls her back into his chest. Lydia rests her cheek on his shoulder, wishing she could disappear, crawl under his skin and curl up against his heart, where it's safe, where no one can hurt her. Stiles murmurs nonsense into her ear and rubs her back and it makes her cry harder, how kind he is, how he always catches her when she thinks she's going to fall.

“Hey,” he says eventually, when she's quieted down, the last of her tears silently carving a path down her face. “When was the last time you ate something?”

Lydia turns her face into the side of his neck and braces herself. “Lunch,” she admits.

“Lydia”-

“I know,” she whispers. “I'm sorry.”

“No, don't - it's fine, it's okay. I mean, it's not okay but. I'm not mad.” He tilts his head to the side and cracks his neck before glancing down at her. “We need to make a plan though.”

She sighs, playing with the hem of his shirt. “There really isn't anything else I can do, Aiden and I talked to Derek, he said he'd take care of it but we haven't heard anything since we talked to him and they scheduled us for a rehearsal next week anyway.”

Stiles nods, one hand resting on the back of her neck. “How about a short term plan then?”

Lydia wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “I'm open to suggestions.”

He glances down at her and brushes her hair off her tear-stained cheeks. “I'm going to make you something to eat and then we're going to finish A New Hope because we, um” -

“Got too distracted to finish it last week?” she teases.

“Right,” he affirms. “And then I'm going to follow you home to make sure you get there okay, and you're going to let me, because when a girl shows up at ten at night crying I reserve the right to be worried about her, okay?”

Lydia looks up at him, remembering how his voice had echoed in her head that day in the studio when she was drowning in fear, how it had led her back to Scott and Allison, pulled her back to safety. She arches up and presses her lips against his, just for a moment. “Okay.”

He gives her a soft smile and bends down to kiss her back, brushing his lips tenderly against hers. “Okay.”

He lets go of her long enough to stand up and holds a hand out to help her to her feet. Lydia sways a little bit and leans into him, and lets Stiles lead her into the kitchen, her hand held tightly in his the entire time, and it's enough right now, his warm eyes and his soft voice and the warmth of his palm against hers, to make her feel safe again, if not strong than solid, real, so much more than a broken doll or a bloody body, a fallen ballerina.

She feels like a girl, a girl who's standing in a room with a boy she likes, a boy who likes her back, and maybe, Lydia thinks, watching Stiles move around the kitchen, glancing back at her every few seconds to give her a reassuring smile, maybe she can be a girl who’s brave enough to show him all the parts inside of her that are weak and scared, and trust that he’ll hold her in his hands like she still matters anyway.


	24. dancing on a blade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hit 200k words, this is crazy!!! I'm waiting for Chicvore (Polyvore's rumored replacement) to go live but I already had the dresses Allison and Lydia wear in this chapter picked out so I included links to those if anyone wants a visual. I tried to keep the ratio of angst to Stydia more balanced in this chapter, I'm doing my best you guys, I swear.

Lydia's mother is gone by the time she gets dressed and goes downstairs on Saturday morning. [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528670275082) stands in the middle of the empty kitchen, blinking sleepily, a little shocked that her mother has already gone back to work on the weekends, leaving Lydia to her own devices until she has to go out to dinner tonight to celebrate Scott and Allison's mutual acceptance into UC Davis. She backtracks to the foyer and glances out the window, sure enough the driveway is empty, her mother's car is gone. Lydia sighs and rests her forehead against the cool glass, feeling a strange mix of terror and relief - ever since everyone found out she feels like she's been under constant surveillance and now she's inexplicably free, at least until tonight, and she doesn't know what to do with herself now, she hadn't planned on her autonomy being restored so quickly.

She goes back into the kitchen and gets a bag of coffee out of the freezer. She sets it on the countertop and stops, picking up a scrap of paper that's resting on top of the coffeemaker, covered in her mother's looping script:

 _Breakfast is on the table, your lunch is in the fridge. You MUST eat a snack before dinner, I'll be home by six. Love, Mom_.

Lydia folds the note in half, then quarters, rips it into tiny pieces and drops it all into the recycling bin. She gets a pot of coffee brewing and opens the fridge, right on the middle shelf is a plate covered in plastic wrap. Lydia pulls it out a little to examine it: a turkey sandwich on thick slices of multigrain bread, cheese and lettuce curling over the edges of the crust, a handful of baby carrots, and a little plastic cup of hummus. She slides the plate carefully back in place like it's poisonous, grabs the coconut milk and shuts the fridge.

When the coffee is ready she pours herself a cup, stirs in a little milk and carries the mug over to the kitchen table where her breakfast is waiting for her on another plastic covered plate: a whole wheat bagel, sliced in half, a carefully measured scoop of peanut butter, and six strawberries with the stems cut off. Lydia fills up a glass with water and takes it into the living room along with the coffee, sets both drinks down over coasters on the coffee table, and goes back to the kitchen to get her breakfast. She walks over to the table and peels off the plastic wrap, picks up the butter knife her mother left on the side of the plate so she can spread the peanut butter over the bagel and freezes, a strange wave of nervous exhilaration rushing over her as she has a sudden realization.

She doesn't have to eat it. Not really, not if she doesn't want to.

No one would know.

She grips the knife, her heart racing like she’s about to cut open her skin. It's like the first time it ever happened, that sudden blinding awareness that she didn't _have_ to eat, that she could _choose_ not to eat, and before she can think too hard about it she lets the instinct take over - she cuts each half of the bagel into quarters, carries the plate over to the sink and feeds each piece into the garbage disposal.

By the time she's done her hands are shaking.

Lydia takes the peanut butter and strawberries into the kitchen and sets the plate down next to her coffee. She turns the tv on, some cheesy romance movie is playing on Lifetime. Lydia sips her coffee and stretches her legs out on the couch, pointing and flexing her feet, mindlessly watching the movie. Onscreen an actress is crying pretty mascara-tinted tears that look too precise to be real while the leading actor yells and throws a beer bottle at the wall. Lydia flinches at the sound of glass breaking and hits mute, stabbing at the remote to switch over to the history channel.

She doesn't need a reminder of last night, how she fell apart on the floor in front of Stiles, showed him every weak thing crawling under her skin. It makes her feel vulnerable just thinking about it, how unbearably gentle he was with her, how after she finally pulled herself together he made both of them grilled cheese sandwiches, eaten in the living room while finishing Star Wars, and Stiles had joked and smiled and at one point he leaned across the couch to lick crumbs off her bottom lip, making her laugh against his mouth, like she was a normal girl who did normal things, like eat and giggle and stay up late watching a movie with a guy who really sees her, who makes her feel like she matters, like she could be so much more than just a dancer, just a pretty little thing in a tutu.

And it felt good, until she woke up this morning and remembered that Allison is leaving her, that Peter almost let her fall in rehearsal over a lift she's sure she can't do, and she's probably going to have to do it in her next rehearsal anyway.

Remembered that the only thing that makes her feel better is something she doesn't have anymore, or thought she didn't, before her mother left her alone and Lydia shoved her breakfast down the garbage disposal in a thrilling act of defiance.

She eats her strawberries one by one, dipping them in the peanut butter and licking it off. When she finishes her coffee she turns off the tv, takes all the dishes into the kitchen and leaves them in the sink. She tops off her water glass and goes upstairs, grabs her dance bag from her room and walks down the hall to the practice studio. She pulls on her ballet slippers and plugs her phone into the speaker dock, starts her Tchaikovsky playlist and goes over to the barre.

She does Marin's entire barre routine, watching her reflection out of the corner of her eye. She sucks in her stomach, critically observing the curve of her spine, the extension of her legs, the flutter of her arms. She doesn't push too hard, not yet, because it's barre, it's just a warm up, and this is the first time in a week she's danced without eating a solid breakfast first. She doesn't meditate upon the fact that she likes it, that she missed this, how light she feels inside, free from everyone's control, free to fly or fall but at least this way it's her choice, her decision to balance right on that knife’s edge, dancing on a blade and daring herself not to get cut to shreds.

When she's finished at the barre she changes into her pointe shoes and warms up her feet in the center with a series of quick changements before changing the music to her showcase piece. She starts with her opening solo and walks through the pas de deux, marking each section. She does her second solo, watching her face in the mirror, carefully executing every smirk, every smile, every flash of her eyes. She hits the second pas de deux and marks it through, does her last jump sequence and finishes stage left, right before she and Aiden are supposed to do the final lift.

She stops and leans against the wall, breathing hard, her chest tightening when she thinks about what happened in her last rehearsal, how as soon as Aiden lifted her above his head reality dissolved, fear crawling its way up her throat and threatening to suffocate her. 

How out of control it made her feel.

She has to sit down suddenly, pressing her head against her knees, overcome by a sudden overwhelming sensation that if she does that lift again she'll die. Lydia wraps her arms around her thighs and breathes through the tightness in her chest, her ribs aching, and when she gets her breath back she gets up and starts the music over from the beginning.

She dances the whole piece from the top, throwing herself into every movement, until all she can feel is the pounding of her heart and the burning in her muscles and the sweat dripping down her back. She goes through it again and again, until her lungs ache and her feet start to cramp up in her shoes. She stops the music and stares at her face in the mirror, thinking about the night Allison found her on the floor of the bathroom after Lydia worked herself so hard in rehearsal that she almost passed out in the shower.

_What is wrong with you?_

She takes her pointe shoes off with shaking fingers, carries her stuff down the hall and drops it all on her bedroom floor, and goes into the bathroom. She takes a hot shower, shampoos and combs deep conditioner through her hair. She stays under the water for a long time, letting it pound down on her shoulders, one hand pressed against the cool tiled wall to hold herself up when her legs begin to shake. 

She should've eaten that bagel.

By the time she gets out Lydia's so hungry she's a little nauseous. She dried off quickly and wraps her wet hair up in a towel, puts on a robe and goes into her room. She changes into a pair of eyelet [shorts](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528670599422) and a blue tank top, grabs her laptop, and goes back downstairs. She puts her computer down on the kitchen table and gets her lunch out of the fridge, sets the plate down on the counter next to the sink and examines her sandwich.

She takes off the top slice of bread and the cheese, tears them up into little pieces and stuffs most of them down the disposal, scattering a few bits at the bottom of the sink. She carries the plate over to the table and eats the sandwich open-faced while she does her last assignment for her online mythology class. When she's finished Lydia drinks a glass of water and leaves her dirty plate in the sink where her mother can see it. She goes back upstairs to her room and unrolls her yoga mat and does stretches on the floor until it's time for her to get ready for dinner.

Lydia strips down to her pale pink bra and matching thong and plugs in her curling iron. She opens her closet and pulls out a dark colored wrap [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528670907861) printed with white flowers and a ruffled skirt and puts in on, adjusts her cleavage in the mirror until she's satisfied, sprays heat protectant through her hair and sits down at her vanity to curl it with the iron. When she's finished she spritzes her curls with a little sea salt spray and shakes them out with her fingers. She uses a beauty blender to apply foundation, brushes on soft pink blush and shimmery gold highlighter. She lines her eyes with smoky deep blue liner and applies mascara, fills in her eyebrows and slicks on shimmery pink lip gloss. Lydia takes out her strappy gold sandals and buckles them on, slides her phone and wallet into her pale blue Chloe bag and goes downstairs just as her mother is coming through the front door.

“Hi sweetheart,” she calls out, dropping her keys into the dish on the entry table. “Oh look how pretty you look, I love that dress on you.”

“Thanks.” Lydia offers her cheek for her mother to kiss and holds still while she fusses with Lydia's hair.

“Come into the kitchen with me, tell me how your day was.” Her mother kicks off her Tod loafers and walks down the hallway into the kitchen, turning her head back once to make sure Lydia is following her.

Lydia walks into the kitchen and leans against the kitchen island, watching her mother set her tote bag on the kitchen table and take out a sheath of papers held together by a paperclip. “Did you practice today?” she asks lightly.

“Mmhm.” Lydia watches her mother cross the kitchen over to the fridge and look inside it, as if Lydia would be stupid enough to leave an uneaten sandwich in there for her to find.

“What did you have for a snack?” her mother asks casually, glancing down at the sink before meeting Lydia at the island and picking up a pen.

Lydia blinks at her. “What?”

Her mother starts filling out the boxes on her meal sheet. “What did you have for a snack?”

Lydia hesitates, _shit, how could she be so stupid, what the hell is wrong with her?_

Her mother's expression hardens. “Lydia?”

“I had an apple,” she says weakly.

Her mother raises an eyebrow at her. “Really?”

“Mmhm.” 

“Well that's funny, because I finished the last apple two nights ago.”

Lydia stares at her mother, her head spinning, and startles at the miraculous distant sound of a car honking. “That's Stiles, I have to go.”

“We aren't done here, young lady” -

“Mom, I promise we can talk about this when I get back but I really have to go, okay?”

“Lydia” -

“Mom, I can't be late, this dinner is a really big deal to Allison, I swear we can talk about this later, okay? Love you, bye!”

Lydia slips out of the kitchen and jogs down the hallway to the foyer, lets herself out the front door and hurries down the walk to the driveway where the Jeep is waiting for her. She yanks open the door and hauls herself into the car, relief washing over her. She escaped, she made it, and Stiles is sitting a foot away from her in a charcoal colored button down with the sleeves rolled up so his forearms are exposed and a pair of khakis, and all of a sudden he's the only thing she can see, the only thing she cares about, like her entire painfully monotonous day was worth it just to get her here, to this moment, with him.

Lydia lunges across the console and kisses him, yanking him in by the shirt, making Stiles flail for a second as he makes a muffled noise of surprise before he kisses her back. She softens into it, at the way kissing him makes her feel - like nothing can touch her here, with him, every single nerve ending on fire at the slightest touch of his skin against hers. His hands go to her hair and Lydia reaches up to pull them down so he can't mess it up and Stiles breaks away, laughing against her lips.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, grinning. “Here, hold still.”

She holds her breath as he brings his hands back to her hair and carefully smooths it down. “There,” he says proudly. “I fixed it.”

“You better have,” she says sternly, but can't help from smiling a little and the effect is ruined.

“You look really beautiful,” he says, and she's gone, she has to look away so he can't see how he lights her up inside with just one sentence.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, and buckles her seatbelt. “You look nice too.”

For some reason Stiles looks a little baffled but he recovers quickly, grinning as he shifts into reverse. “What can I say, I clean up well.”

“I agree.” Lydia reaches over so she can rest her left hand high up on his thigh.

“You're in a good mood,” he comments, lips turning up in a bit of a smirk as he turns the Jeep around on her street and shifts into drive. “Friendly. I like it.”

“I can be friendly.” Lydia squeezes his thigh and Stiles lets out a very satisfying choking sound.

“I just meant, you seem like you're feeling better after last night.”

She leans her head back against the seat. It makes her chest hurt to think about it, how vulnerable she was, crying against his chest for who knows how long because once she started she couldn't stop and she needed it, him, holding her in his arms and putting her back together after she shattered.

“Yeah,” she says quietly, because she is doing better.

Well, except for all that food she shoved down the garbage disposal, and lying blithely to her mother even when she clearly didn't believe a word Lydia was saying, and dancing until she was soaked with sweat and out of breath and shaking.

“That didn't exactly sound convincing,” he comments.

“I'm okay,” she says cautiously. “It's just - I didn't think it would be this hard.”

Stiles brakes for a red light and gives her a soft look that makes her stomach tighten. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Actually, do you think we could possibly take a break from discussing my myriad psychological issues for one night? Not that it isn't so much fun for both of us but it would nice to have” -

“A normal night?”

“Yeah,” she says gratefully. “That.”

Stiles chuckles. “We're having dinner with Scott, Allison, and their parents, we’ll be lucky if we even survive dinner, let alone achieve some semblance of normalcy.”

“I suppose you have a point,” she admits. “I assume you know where we're going?”

“Firefly Garden,” he supplies. “It's New American, which means American food that's covered in crap no one actually cares about so they can charge twice as much, like truffles, what the hell is every restaurant’s obsession with putting truffles on everything? Truffle fries, truffle freaking burgers, it's insulting, is what it is.”

Lydia swallows back a giggle. “And what exactly did truffles ever do to you?”

“Lydia.” He shoots her a horrified look. “Truffles are _fungus_.”

“I'm aware of that.”

“ _Fungus_ , Lydia. Subterranean fungus.” 

“Mushrooms are fungus.”

“Mushrooms aren't insanely expensive and don't require pigs to sniff out, although that's actually kind of a problem because it turns out little piggys _love_ those suckers so now they have to use dogs. Dogs, Lydia.”

Lydia stares at him, mistified. “How do you know all that?”

Stiles puts on his turn signal and checks his mirrors before changing lanes. “Doing research for an Econ paper.”

“You did a paper on truffles?”

“Nah, the food industry. I, uh, may have fallen into a wiki spiral.”

“A wiki spiral,” Lydia parrots in disbelief.

“What can I say, I'm a kickass researcher.” He throws her a little wink that's so unassumingly sexy it makes her stomach drop.

When they get to the restaurant Stiles hands the keys to the Jeep to the valet rather reluctantly and walks around to help Lydia down from her seat, threading his fingers through hers as they go inside. Chris and Allison walk in less than a minute later, followed closely by Scott and his mom. Chris is in a sharp grey suit, one of his arms slung protectively around Allison's shoulders. Allison looks beautiful, her hair is pulled back in a loose twist and she's wearing a long sleeved pale pink [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528671190598) printed with colorful tulips, her legs bare, and the black Louboutins her mother bought her. Scott looks uncomfortable in black dress pants and a forest green button down but Nurse McCall seems surprisingly relaxed and looks extra pretty; she has shimmery bronzer on, her hair is down in glossy curls and she's wearing an elegant midnight blue cocktail dress with three quarter length sleeves and a deep v neck.

Chris is the first one to break the silence, stepping forward to lean down and kiss Lydia on the cheek. “Hi sweetheart, you look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Lydia flushes, she had the most embarrassing crush on Chris when she was younger, he still makes her flustered sometimes. She ignores Allison's eye roll and smiles at Scott and his mom. “Hi Nurse McCall.”

“Hi honey.” She gives Lydia a warm smile and motions at Stiles. “Get over here, kid.”

Stiles ducks his head as he shuffles over to her and she wraps her arms around him in a tight embrace. “You being good?” she asks, her voice soft and maternal.

Something inside Lydia's stomach contracts, watching the way Stiles goes a little limp in her hold, some tension that Lydia wasn't even aware he was holding in his shoulders leaking out of him. Scott leans over his mom and whispers something into Stiles’ ear and Lydia watches as Stiles laughs and gently elbows Scott in the ribs. 

Allison comes up behind Lydia and slips her hand into hers. “You looks so pretty,” she whispers, but when Lydia twists her head up to look at her Allison looks a little sad.

 _You okay?_ Lydia mouths.

Allison shrugs and looks down at her shoes, the ones her mother bought her, the same mother that once exiled her to Paris to separate her and Scott, the same mother who wouldn't come to dinner to celebrate her daughter’s acceptance into college, and Lydia squeezes her hand.

“Argent, party of six?” The host, a slim dark skinned boy in a black suit, looks at them all expectantly. 

Chris nods and everyone follows him through the small restaurant, the room lit by twinkling fairy lights and votive candles in golden sconces on the walls. “Wow,” Allison breathes, doing a châine turn between two tables as they approach the back of the restaurant.

The host points out their table and lays down menus. Chris sits down on one side, at the end, and Allison dutifully moves forward to sit next to him, giving Lydia a pleading look. Lydia sits down on Allison's other side and Stiles slides into the chair across from her, shooting her a quick private smile, which Lydia returns before brushing the toe of her sandal against his shin under the table. Scott sinks down next to him, leaving his mom to sit across from Chris. When their waitress shows up Chris insists on ordering a bottle of Moët, and after only a little resistance Melissa gives in. 

“We should take pictures,” Allison announces, whipping her phone out of her dark blue velvet clutch. She holds the phone out in front of her and Lydia leans in so Allison can take a few selfies of them. “Now you and Stiles!” Allison directs.

Lydia gets up and walks around the table to Stiles and perches right on his lap, folding her hands together and flipping her hair over her shoulder as Stiles wraps an arm around her waist, looking delighted.

“Smile, Lydia!” Allison calls out, and Lydia smiles big, tilting her head towards Stiles so their cheeks touch, letting herself enjoy it all - Allison's excitement, the soft shimmering lights, Stiles’ arm warm and solid against her.

When the champagne comes Chris lets Allison and Lydia each have a few sips and the boys both pout when Nurse McCall gives them both a hard no. “You're driving, absolutely not,” she says, and when Chris pours a glass for her she accepts it with a wry smile.

Everyone starts looking through their menus; Lydia takes a deep breath and remembers that she didn't eat much breakfast and she skipped her snack entirely so it's fine, she tells herself, she can eat here, they're celebrating, she can let herself relax a little.

She doesn't want to ruin anything tonight, not when Allison is so happy, not when everyone is getting along, when Stiles is looking at her like that from across the table, his eyes shining in the light. When the waitress comes she starts with Melissa, who orders the mahi mahi with garlic potatoes, and Scott and Stiles both order steak burgers that come with sweet potato fries. The waitress walks around the table to Lydia and gives her a warm smile. “And what about you, hon?”

“I'll have the truffle mushroom risotto with chicken,” Lydia says with a sweet smile, and Stiles chokes and has to spit his water back into his glass.

Lydia smirks at him over the edge of her menu while Allison orders tomato basil pasta with grilled chicken. Chris asks for the truffle-honey chicken and Lydia and Stiles both lose it, she dissolves into giggles as Stiles drops his forehead right down on the table next to the bread basket, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Nurse McCall shoots him a mystified look and Lydia has to cover her mouth with her napkin, watching Stiles wipe actual tears of laughter away when he finally raises his head.

“Are you guys okay?” Scott looks baffled.

“Inside joke,” Stiles explains, and brushes his foot against Lydia's under the table.

She has to look away from him so she can stop laughing but Allison raises a curious eyebrow and sets Lydia off again, giggling hysterically into her napkin while Stiles sniggers into his elbow.

It feels good to laugh.

When the food comes Lydia spreads her napkin over her lap, picks up her fork and takes a small, careful bite. The rice is soft and creamy, rich, and it's so good, she relaxes back in her chair and watches Stiles take an absolutely gigantic bite of his burger. Allison nudges Lydia's shoulder and points her fork at the risotto. “How is it?”

“Good,” Lydia answers honestly. “Want to try it?”

“Okay.” Allison digs her fork in and takes a bit. “Oh, that's really good, do you want to try my pasta?”

“Sure,” Lydia says, because it feels easy to be brave right now, with Allison right next to her and Stiles brushing his foot against her ankle, safe with people who won't hurt her, miles away from a dark basement and a man with cruel hands and eyes so light they almost glow.

Allison beams at her and Lydia wraps her fork around a few noodles, lets herself eat them without second guessing herself. “Good,” Lydia assesses, and Allison reaches out and squeezes her forearm.

Lydia drags her fork through her risotto and smiles at Stiles. “Want to try my risotto?”

He give it a suspicious look. “I'm good.”

“You should try it, it's really good,” Allison says.

“Yeah, come on Stiles.” Lydia scoops up a bite with her fork and holds it out across the table to him, and something flashes across Stiles’ face.

He leans over his plate and eats the risotto right off her fork, chews thoughtfully and smiles. “Okay, that's not terrible.”

“See, I told you.” Lydia gives him a smug smile.

“Yeah, I guess you were right.”

“I usually am.”

“Yeah, okay,” he teases, and Lydia smiles like it's nothing, like it's easy, because somehow it is with him, even when she doesn't want it to be.

He makes her want it to be. She still isn't really used to it, that she doesn't have to try with him, that she doesn't have to do anything for him except the hardest thing of all - be exactly who she is, because ever since they met he's always been able to see through her, has made her feel real in a way that used to terrify her but is starting to become something she wants, something she thinks she could really have with him maybe, if she let herself.

It's a strange, exhilarating sort of feeling, the certainty that if she falls for him, really lets herself fall, he’ll be there to catch her.

They all keep the conversation light throughout dinner - UC Davis’ course selection, the latest reviews of HBC’s staging of Coppélia, Scott and Stiles’ last lacrosse game of the year. Lydia eats more than half of her risotto before realizing she's full and asks the waitress to wrap it up for her so she can take it home. When the check comes Nurse McCall tries to pay but Chris waves her off, insisting that it's on him and she relents easily, letting Chris hand over his black card as she drains her glass of champagne.

Once he signs the check they all walk back through the restaurant and stand on the sidewalk together, waiting for the valets to bring the cars around. Allison loops her arms around Lydia's waist and rests her head on her shoulder. “Thanks for coming,” she murmurs. “It really means a lot to me.”

Lydia leans down and rests her head against Allison's. “What are best friends for?”

“Let’s get brunch tomorrow,” Allison says, and lifts her head to glance at Scott and Stiles. “Guys, brunch tomorrow?”

Scott shrugs and glances at Stiles, who nods and gives Allison a thumbs up. They bring Nurse Mccall’s car first, Scott gives Allison a quick peck on the lips while Chris leans down and gives Nurse McCall a rather friendly kiss on the cheek, and she laughs a little before patting his shoulder and getting into the passenger seat. Scott waves at Stiles and Lydia before walking around the back of the car and getting into the driver's seat, honking the horn as he drives away. They bring Chris’s SUV next, Allison gives Lydia one last hug and waves at Stiles. 

Chris leans down and gives Lydia a gentle hug. “It was nice to see you sweetheart, are you doing okay?”

Lydia blinks up at him, at the warm fatherly expression of his face. “What?”

Over his shoulder Allison winces and leans into Stiles. Chris glances over at her and then back at Lydia. “I know that the school can push you girls,” he explains. “I just want to make sure everyone is alright.”

“Oh,” Lydia says softly. “Thank you, I'm okay.”

“Good to hear,” Chris says, and shakes Stiles’ hand a little more firmly than necessary before ushering Allison into the car and driving away.

“And then there were two,” Lydia murmurs, and closes the distance between her and Stiles.

“Hey,” he says softly, and rests his hands against her waist.

“Hey.” Lydia tilts her head back and smiles up at him. “We survived.”

He grins. “Yeah, we did.”

“What do you think? Normalcy achieved?”

Stiles gives her a mischievous look. “Almost,” he says, and leans down to kiss her.

She parts her lips and kisses him back, one hand resting against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart under her palm as they kiss and kiss, the air warm and soft on her skin, the plastic bag with her risotto dangling from the fingertips of her free hand.

“Excuse me, sir?” They break apart reluctantly, the valet has brought the Jeep up to the curb and is standing on the sidewalk in front of them holding the keys.

Stiles takes the keys from him and opens the passenger door for Lydia. She hops up onto the seat and buckles up while Stiles shuts her door for her and jogs around the car to get into the driver's seat. He flashes Lydia a smile as he buckles his seatbelt and turns the engine over. Lydia places her leftovers on the floor by her feet and reaches out to hold his hand over the gearshift as Stiles pulls away from the curb. It's a nice night out, warm, he rolls the windows down and taps his thumb against the back of Lydia's hand. She turns a little to the side to watch him drive, takes in those elegant fingers curled over the steering wheel, the flexing tendons of his forearms, the tilt of his head when he checks his mirrors.

There's music playing softly on the radio, the air is sweet with the smell of spring, and she's in a car with a boy who's waited months for her to be ready for him, stood by her and offered her nothing but friendship and kindness, slowly broke down her walls brick by brick until he could see how fragile and broken she was, and instead of leaving he stretched out his hands and held her between them like he could heal her with just a touch, like magic.

She tightens her grip on his hand. It feels too perfect, like a moment out of a movie, like if she says or does the wrong thing it will shatter.

Stiles glances over to her and then looks back at the street, knocks his knuckles against the wheel, looks back over at her, looks away.

Lydia readjusts her grip on his hand. “What?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says, widening his eyes, faux-innocent.

“Stiles.”

He sighs and then suddenly he pulls the car over to the side of the road so they're half in the trees, and turns the headlights off. “Okay, don't freak out,” he says in a rush. “But there's this thing I've been meaning to ask you for awhile but it never felt like the right time, but tonight's been going really, really, well, and I should probably just keep my mouth shut but I've never been any good at that so I'm going to push my luck I guess, because you look so fucking pretty tonight and I'm so goddamn proud of you, maybe it doesn't feel like it to you but I can tell, we all can tell that you're trying and I know that's so hard, but you're doing it, and getting to watch you deal with all this shit and fight it like a badass is just really, really awesome, and you're awesome and I think we could kind of also be awesome together, you know, the way two things you wouldn't think would be a good combination can end up being a perfect combination, like two people, and I really feel like you and I have had this unspoken connection since we met and I know you really weren't interested in a relationship in the beginning and I've always tried to respect that because you deserve to have what you want, even if it isn't me, but you're still here and I'm kind of crazy about you Lydia, like can't stop thinking about your hair and your eyes and that time I saw you dance on your birthday, really dance, kind of crazy and I know you don't like dancing for fun but I'm really, really hoping that you'll make an exception just this once.”

“Stiles,” she says slowly, her head spinning. “What the hell are you trying to say?”

He takes a deep breath and squeezes her hand. “Lydia Martin, will you go to prom with me?”

Her mouth drops open a little. “You want me to go prom with you?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I mean, you're practically my girlfriend, of course I want you come to prom with me, I mean, if you want to go, I know it probably doesn't meet your qualifications of real dancing but” -

“Shut up.” Lydia yanks her seatbelt off and lunges across the console to kiss him. “Of course I want to go to your prom with you.”

He blinks as she cups her hands around his cheeks, looking a little dazed. “Really?”

Lydia smacks her lips against his. “Really.” She reaches down and unbuckles his seatbelt for him. “Really, really.”

“C’mere,” he says hoarsely, and pulls her into his lap. Lydia lets her knees fall to the sides and reaches up to cup her hands around his shoulders. Stiles leans down and rests his forehead against hers. “I'm gonna buy you a fucking awesome corsage, and we can go with Scott and Allison, you'll have fun, I promise.”

“I know,” she murmurs. “I'll be with you.”

She rises up a little on her knees to kiss him and Stiles groans against her lips, his hands sliding under the hem of her dress. Lydia parts her lips and his tongue flicks against hers. She sighs into his mouth when his hands slide up the backs of her thighs, huge and warm against her skin. She pushes up a little more so she can curl one hand around the side of his neck, feeling his pulse hammer against her fingertips.

“Push your seat back,” she whispers.

He blinks up at her, one hand fumbling with his seat until he find the lever and pushes it back. Lydia gives him a saucy smile and slides down his chest, pushing his thighs apart as she shifts sideways to lean over him on her stomach, her hands unbuckling his pants.

“Lydia?” he pants above her.

She glances up at him. “Yes?”

His mouth opens and shuts a few times. “Sorry. Nothing, continue, um, please, I mean, if you want to!”

“I want to,” she says conversationally, and pushes his khakis down his thighs when he lifts his hips.

“Oh my god,” he breathes when Lydia pulls down the waistband of his navy boxer briefs and takes him out. “Oh my god, oh my god.”

Lydia licks her palm and wraps her hand around him as she flicks her tongue across the tip, and Stiles hisses between clamped teeth. She smiles to herself and wraps her lips around him, her tongue making little licks and swirls as she slowly moves her fist up and down. She hasn't done this in a long time but she remembers what it feels like, to be this powerful, the one totally in control, how to reduce a boy to grunts and moans and pleas for more. Stiles lays one hand on the back of her neck lightly, just resting there, his thumb running under her jaw as she bobs her head up and down.

It only takes a few minutes before he's squirming desperately, his thighs flexing under her as his fingers tangle in her hair. “Lydia,” he gasps. “Lydia, I'm gonna…”

She swallows when he comes, hollowing out her cheeks as she suck him down. Stiles groans as she licks her tongue up his length a few times before pulling off, dropping kisses into the crease of his hip before pulling his boxers up. He pushes her hair back from where it's falling across her forehead, staring down at her, an awestruck expression on his face.

“Oh my god, get up here,” he says breathlessly, and hauls Lydia back up into his lap.

He kisses her hard on the mouth and Lydia shivers, feeling a smug wave of delight as his hands slide up the insides of her thighs so he can walk his fingers underneath the hem of her underwear, and they don't get back on the road for another twenty minutes.

*  


_She's standing in the practice studio in the basement and its dark except for the glint of mirrors everywhere she turns, a strange blue light bouncing off the glass. Lydia's naked, her body twisted up and distorted when she looks at her reflection, chills breaking over her skin as Peter stands behind her, his hands running up and down her bare arms, his eyes glowing in the mirror._

_“Look at you, my darling,” he whispers. “I could do anything to you like this.”_

_Fear curls around her throat like a cold satin ribbon and pulls tight so she can't scream, can't talk, can't breath, can't do anything as she watches Peter drop his mouth to her shoulder and sink his teeth into her skin. His hands wrap around her neck and he digs his fingernails into her skin but they aren't fingernails, they're claws, like a wolf, and everything is red, all around her_ -

[Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528671504157) wakes up crying.

She curls over and glances at the clock, fluorescent green numbers blurry through her tears. It's around five in the morning and her room is almost pitch black, the sky out the window an inky midnight blue. She grabs a tissue from the box on the nightstand and wipes off her face, balls it up and tosses it into the wastebasket. She climbs out of bed on shaking legs, her heart racing with adrenaline. She grabs her yoga mat from the corner of her room and rolls it out on the floor next to her bed, more out of habit than anything else.

Lydia lies down on her back but instead of starting her abs routine a raw sob tears out of her throat and she covers her face with her hands, crying into her palms so she doesn't wake up her mother. It takes her a long time to calm down, she has to get up and grab the entire box of kleenex so her cheeks don't get sticky with dried tears. Once she's managed to stop crying she stretches back out on the floor and does her entire ab series, her skin covered in a cold sheen of sweat. When she's finished she's still not tired enough to go back to bed so she stands up and does a yoga flow, moving through chaturanga and cobra, pushing her hips back for downward dog and dropping her heels down towards the floor, repeating the series over and over again until her muscles burn.

Lydia lays down on her back for savasana, corpse pose, legs outstretched, arms down by her sides, and closes her eyes. She breathes through her nose, imagining her mind like a blank sheet of white paper, clean, unblemished, no bad thoughts or teeth or blood or eyes that glow electric blue in the dark. She drifts back off to sleep right there on the floor and wakes up with a jolt when her alarm goes off at nine-thirty, the bones of her spine aching. She rubs her eyes and rolls off her mat to turn her alarm off, wincing at the ache in her temples, the hot throbbing pain behind her eyes.

She goes into the bathroom and strips, turns the fan on and stares at her naked body in the mirror. She turns her face from side to side to examine her cheekbones, runs her fingers over her collarbone, lifts her arms up and takes a deep breath, watching as the basket of her rib cage appears beneath her skin. She cups her hands over the curves of her iliac crests, turns around and examines her back, the bones of her shoulders poking out like wings. She lets her arms drop and takes another deep breath, rolling down and pressing her hands flat against the bathmat to stretch her back before slowly rolling back up, relief rushing through her as she peeks at the knobs of her spine in the mirror.

All her bones are still there. She's fine.

She's fine.

Lydia washes her face and steps into the shower, turns the water on hot and leans back into the spray. She shivers, fingers going up to splay over her neck where Peter bit her in her dream but all she can feel is smooth slippery skin. She shaves her legs and washes her hair, leaning against the tiled wall of the shower when she's done, idly watching the soap swirl down the drain, exhaustion settling over her like a heavy blanket, and doesn't get out until the water begins to run cold.

When she gets back to her room her phone is vibrating on the nightstand. Stiles sent her a text when she was in the shower, letting her know that he's picking her up in half an hour to meet Scott and Allison for brunch. She texts him back to confirm and sits down at her vanity, combs through her wet hair and applies moisturizer, staring at her face in the mirror. Her eyes are still a little red from crying and she's too pale. She looks tired, the kind of tired that comes from deep in your bones, when you've nothing left inside of you. 

Lydia sighs to herself and changes into a robe, goes back to the bathroom and blow dries her hair. She's too tired to make it look perfect today so she bends over and gathers it all in her hands and twists it up on the top of her head in a messy bun. She hangs up her towel and goes back to her room, goes through her closet and picks out a short sleeved chiffon wrap [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528659101834) printed with little purple flowers. She gets dressed and sits down at her vanity to do her makeup: foundation, concealer, extra blush. She lines her waterline in white eyeliner to makes her eyes look more normal and adds two coats of dark brown mascara.

She puts on her black Rag and Bone ankle boots, grabs her Chloe bag and goes downstairs; Lydia immediately slips out the front door so she doesn't have to deal with her mother. By the time she got back last night her mom had already put herself to bed with a bottle of Chardonnay and Lydia's secretly hoping it'll blot out the memory of the apple incident, or at least wash it out to the distant shores of her mother's consciousness. She sits down on the porch steps, carefully spreading her skirt over her thighs, and stares blankly out at the street, waiting for Stiles.

Sometimes it feels like that's all she does when she isn't dancing - wait for someone to get her, for someone to drop her, for someone to hurt her, for someone to leave again.

She doesn't know if she can protect herself against that anymore, all the raw vulnerable parts of her that hurt, the nightmares, the way it feels like her skin is barely thick enough to hold her organs inside her body, let enough protect her bones from breaking.

She can't do everything. She isn't special, or bulletproof, magical, she doesn't have any superpowers. All she has is a body ( _you are a body_ ) and a mind that shifts and fractures like a kaleidoscope at the slightest trigger, moments blurring and layering over each other until everything in front of her is a senseless swirl of color and noise.

_What is wrong with you?_

Lydia stands up when she sees the Jeep coming from halfway down the block. She walks slowly down the porch steps, wincing at the loud click of her heels against the wood, her head still pounding as she walks to the driveway. Stiles pulls up to her and she yanks the door open and swings up into the car, her shoulders tensing at the sound of the door slamming when she shuts it.

“Hey,” she murmurs, twisting away from him to grab her seatbelt.

When she gets it buckled and looks up she goes still; Stiles is leaning back in his seat in a burgundy colored vee neck and a pair of worn gray jeans, watching her with a smile playing on his lips and for the first time since she woke up Lydia feels a little warm.

“Hey,” he says, and leans over and kisses her.

She lets him brush his lips against hers and sinks into it for a moment, her eyes slipping shut. He cups her bare elbow and Lydia exhales through the shock of heat that runs through her, the way his touch always makes something deep inside her let go, like some part of her was holding tension in her body that she wasn't previously aware of.

“Are you okay?” he asks when she pulls away, and catches her jaw lightly between his fingers, probing eyes taking in her messy hair, her pale face, the way she shivers when the cold blast of air conditioning hits her skin. “You seem a little not-okay.”

“I didn't sleep that well,” she admits, and slides backwards out of his grasp. “I'm just tired.”

“Okay.” He sounds a little suspicious but he doesn't do anything other than check his mirrors before shifting into reverse and backing out of her driveway.

He seems to intuit that she isn't in the mood to talk; he turns the radio up and drives with the windows down, and after a few minutes Lydia crawls the fingers of her left hand across her seat and tangles them through his where his hand is resting against the gear shift. Stiles glances quickly at her before looking back at the street and readjusts their grip so they're palm to palm and Lydia tilts her head back and shuts her eyes, forcing herself to block everything out but the feeling of his skin against her skin and the air that fills her lungs each time she takes a breath.

When they get to the cafe Scott and Allison are already inside, standing in line with everyone else who's waiting for a table. Scott's in jeans and a grey henley, one of his arms wrapped around Allison's waist. She's laughing at someone he's whispering in her ear, his lips brushing against her hair. Allison's brushed out last night's curls into loose waves that graze the shoulders of her white and navy striped tee shirt [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528671659488). They look happy, in love, and Lydia hates herself a little, for being jealous of something she isn't even really sure she can have even though she wants it.

Stiles reaches down to grip Lydia's hand tightly and uses his other hand to move through the crowd of people hovering right inside the door, slicing through gaps between bodies to make a space big enough for them to both pass through until they make it to Scott and Allison.

“Hey guys!” Allison says brightly, reaching out to hug Lydia. Lydia lets her, feeling too half-asleep to do anything beyond stand in place and tolerate Allison's affection, the phantom touch of Peter still crawling over her skin.

“Hey,” Allison murmurs, pulling back a little to look at her. “Are you okay?”

Lydia blinks heavily and reaches up to brush her fingers against the back of her neck. “Yeah, sorry I didn't sleep well last night. I need coffee.”

“There's still a few groups ahead of us, you can get something from the coffee bar if you don't want to wait,” Allison suggests.

“Yeah, okay.” Lydia tries to give Allison a smile but it comes out feeling like a grimace so she slinks off to the coffee bar before Allison can question her again. 

She hops up onto a bar stool and waits a few minutes for the barista, a beefy redhead with tattooed covered forearms, to finish up his drink order before wandering over to her. “Can I help you?”

“Can I get a latte while I'm waiting for my table?”

“Sure thing, sweetheart. Regular milk?”

“Nonfat,” she says quickly, and looks around, as if Allison mighty be lurking over her shoulder, watching her.

She pays for the latte once it's made and carries it between her palms back over to where Scott, Stiles, and Allison are all standing together in line. Lydia takes a sip of her coffee and sighs to herself, relaxing at the knowledge that caffeine is about to start filtering into her system. When Stiles sees her he makes grabby hands at her coffee and she shakes her head, clutching it against her chest.

“No way,” she declares. “Get your own.”

“Lydia,” he pouts. “Just let me have a taste.”

Next to her Allison giggles and slaps her hand over her mouth. Lydia smirks and walks right up until she's toe to toe with Stiles, and smiles sweetly. “No.”

He leans over her, giving her big pleading eyes that she's sure he learned from Scott. “You're not being very friendly right now.”

“That's because friendliness requires caffeine,” she says, and takes a big sip of her drink.

Stiles rolls his eyes good naturedly. “Alright, I suppose I can wait ten minutes like everyone else.”

“It was an emergency,” she says, only a bit defensively. “I told you, I'm tired.”

“No, I know you are,” he says apologetically, and turns her around by her shoulders so she can lean back against his chest until they finally get a booth by the windows.

Lydia slides in across from Allison and the guys follow, everyone else is having a conversation about something that happened at Scott and Stiles’ end of lacrosse season dinner Friday night that Lydia completely missed the beginning of and she doesn't try to figure it out because she's too tired to care; she curls up next to Stiles on their side of the booth and sips her latte with her eyes half closed. She zones out through the waitress coming up and taking everyone's drink order, when the waitress comes back she sets a carafe of coffee down on the table and asks if they're ready to order.

Allison glances across the table at Lydia and looks back at their waitress. “Can we just have a few more minutes?”

“Of course.” She smiles and walks away, and Allison reaches across the table to flick the back of Lydia's hand.

“What?” she grumbles, pulling her hand out of Allison's reach.

“You haven't looked at your menu once, do you know what you're ordering?”

Lydia reaches up and pushes the heel of her hand against the tension tightening like a metal band across her forehead. “I'm not hungry.”

Allison's expression hardens. “I didn't ask if you were hungry.”

Lydia doesn't have the energy to do this with Allison, not anymore. She's so tired of fighting.

She drops her forehead to the table and folds her arms over her head, squeezing her eyes shut against a rising sea of tears. It doesn't matter whether she eats, it doesn't change anything. She's still the girl who gets dropped, the girl who gets broken, she's still a girl who stood in a room and let a man hold her face in his hands while her heart pounded in terror because she believed she was strong enough to get through it, that it was just another sacrifice she had to make, that it would be worth it one day, when she was a star.

If she can even survive that long.

Laura didn't.

“Lydia, hey, talk to us.” Stiles slides his hand across her shoulder and rests it on the back of her neck.

It doesn't feel the way it did last night in the car, tender and reassuring. All she can feel is the ghost of Peter Hale, fingers peeling her skin off her body, and she startles so hard she almost hits her head against the side of the booth as she sits up and pulls away from him.

“ _Lydia_ ,” Stiles whisper-shouts, looking horrified as he jumps half-out of his seat. “Hey, it's okay, you're okay, what the hell was that?”

“Whoa, okay.” Scott suddenly leans across the table, pushing Stiles back in the booth. “Everyone just take a breath.”

“What's going on?” Allison asks shakily, blinking rapidly like she's about to start crying.

Lydia rest her elbows on the table and cradles her head in her hands, staring down at the table.

_I could do anything to you._

She can't let him do this to her.

“I didn't tell you everything. About what happened with Peter,” she confesses under her breath.

“And by everything you mean there's more that happened than your choreographer _dropping_ you?” Stiles asks incredulously. 

Scott shoots him a expression that looks like a warning before looking at Lydia. “Okay,” Scott says softly. “What kinds of things?”

Lydia looks out at him between her fingers. “He said he could do anything to me,” she whispers.

“He said _what?_ ” Stiles yells, and ducks his head when Scott huffs and throws his hands up.

“Lydia.” Allison looks very small all of a sudden, like the girl Lydia met the day they both auditioned for HSB, a child sitting very still on a bench with a paper number pinned her leotard, crying silently as her mother yanked a brush through her curls. “Did - was he? Did he try to” -

“No,” Lydia cuts her off. “It wasn't like that. Not - not really.”

Next to her Stiles reaches out very slowly, telegraphing his movements, until his hand is resting on her shoulder. “Lydia, you need to tell us if he” -

“It wasn't like that.” She closes her eyes, her head heavy in her hands. She thinks of the way Peter calls her darling, how he's touched her face like a lover as much as he's gripped it so tightly she thought it was bruise, how good it feels when he praises her.

“Okay,” Allison says softly. “Tell us what it was like, then.”

A tear slides out of the corner of Lydia's eye and she tilts her head to catch it with the back of her hand. “I liked it, at first,” she admits, shame flooding through her. “He was nice to me. He said he could help me get into the company. He made me feel special. But then he - he started saying things, sometimes, and then he. You know.”

“What kinds of things?” Scott asks sharply.

Lydia shakes her head against her hands. “Bad things. And I didn't - I knew what was happening was wrong but I didn't tell anyone and if I had just been better, if I hadn't had made him angry then” -

“Stop it.” Stiles runs his thumb across her shoulder, his voice soft but firm at the same time. “Look at me.”

She shakes her head, sure she's going to really cry if she does, and he squeezes her shoulder and slides a little closer to her. “This was not your fault. Okay? He's the one with all the power, he's the one who's supposed to be looking out for you, you didn't do anything to make this guy” -

“Act like a total psycho?” Scott suggests.

“You don't understand,” she says in a shaking voice. “He only did that because I couldn't do it right, I wasn't good enough, if I had been able to do what he wanted” -

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles says roughly, and pulls her to him.

Lydia sniffs and presses her face into his chest, tucking her head under his chin. His arms wrap around her and Lydia doesn't care that she's making a scene right now, that she's breaking down in public, she lets him hold her as tightly as he wants to, letting herself seek refuge in him, take the comfort he's offering.

“Lydia, you being good enough has nothing to do with it,” Allison says gently, and reaches across the table to push a napkin into Lydia's hand. “He got in your head, it sounds like he really tried to mess with you. Come on, you _know_ how good you are.”

“I can't do that lift,” she whispers, using the napkin to wipe underneath her eyes. “The only time we tried I - I can't do it.”

Allison sighs, looking tentative. “Isaac and I could practice it with you tomorrow if you want, but that doesn't really fix the greater issue here.”

“Really?” Lydia asks. She's never partnered with Isaac, he and Allison have always worked together, ever since Isaac showed up at school and they got put together in pas de deux class. 

“Sure,” Allison says. “You've seen our piece, practically half the choreography is lifts.”

“That would help,” Lydia admits gratefully.

“The school won't let Peter work with you anymore, right?” Stiles asks. “I mean come on, this is practically a lawsuit waiting to happen, what are they playing at?”

“A lawsuit means a scandal,” Allison says bitterly, and Lydia knows immediately that she's thinking of Kate, of what she did to Derek, how instead of pressing charges Peter fired her immediately and had her blackballed from every major ballet company in the country, just so no one would ever find out that a soloist from the company seduced the underage son of the company's founders right under everyone's nose.

“But we have to do something,” Stiles insists.

“Derek said he'd take care of it,” Lydia says softly.

“Maybe I should go with you to your rehearsal on Tuesday,” Allison contemplates. “Just in case.”

“Aiden will be there,” Lydia points out.

“Wait, are you seriously saying this Derek guy is going to let you keep rehearsing with Peter?” Stiles asks indignantly.

“I don't know.” Lydia glances up at Stiles. “I'll be okay.”

Scott exhales sharply through his nose. “Like last time?”

“Scott,” Allison chastises softly.

“Can we just - let’s see what happens on Tuesday,” Lydia suggests. “If Peter's still in charge” -

“Then you leave,” Allison says firmly. “I'll go with you and talk to Derek, there's no way you're working with him anymore.”

“But the showcase,” Lydia says weakly.

“If he does something to you again you might not make it to the showcase,” Stiles says tightly. “Which would be completely unacceptable and hey, by the way, am I the only one who remembers what happened to the last ballerina he worked with?”

Lydia and Allison both go rigid, invoking Laura like that is like summoning a ghost. Lydia twists up to wind her arms around Stiles’ neck and presses her cheek against his. “That's not going to happen to me,” she promises, and runs her fingers through his hair before turning in his arms so she can lean against his side, his arm sliding across her shoulders.

“Lydia,” Allison says in a strained voice. “ _Please._ ”

Lydia presses one ear against Stiles’ chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “Okay,” she agrees quietly. “If Derek doesn't get rid of Peter, I walk.”

“It won't come to that,” Allison assures her. “Aiden won't work without you, you know that. And none of the girls will take your part, not if we tell them what really happened.”

Lydia takes a deep breath, feeling a little dizzy but also relieved, that there's a plan, that she's not going to freefall, not with everyone surrounding her like this, ready to catch her. “Okay.”

“Okay!” Allison wipes her eyes with the back of her hand before offering Lydia a smile. “Now that that's settled I think we should get some pancakes.”

Lydia leans her head back against Stiles’ arm. “What exactly are we celebrating?”

Allison smiles for real this time, the dimple in her cheek coming out. “Taking down Peter Hale.”

“Cheers to that,” Stiles says, and everyone clunks their mugs of coffee together.

Lydia raises a doubtful eyebrow at Allison. “Don't you think that's a little premature?”

“Nope.” Allison points her spoon at her. “We're getting rid of that creep and you are going to be amazing in the showcase, okay? End of story.”

Lydia can't help the smile that breaks out across her face. “That sounds like a good story.”

Stiles leans down and kisses her forehead. “I concur. And I am totally down for celebratory pancakes.”

Across the table Scott gives Lydia an encouraging smile, like he knows that's all he needs to do to get her over that edge. Warmth seeps through her, a little flicker of hope flaring in her chest, that things can still get better, that she can still have what she really wants, that she won't have to cry and bleed and break to get it anymore.

“Lydia.” Allison bounces up and down in her seat, her eyes twinkling. “Lydia, come on.”

“Okay, fine,” Lydia relents, pretending to be a little more put out than she really is, because now that she's gotten every last dirty confession out she feels like she can eat again, like it would feel good even, to do something normal like that. “I want blueberry then.”

“That's my girl,” Allison says proudly.

She beams at Lydia before holding up a hand to flag down their waitress. Lydia tilts her chin up to look at Stiles, smiling when he bends down to kiss her, and then she's warm everywhere, that little flicker of hope spreading through her until she can feel it in her entire body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to cut a few scenes from the back half of this chapter due to length, so we'll cover what happens with Peter and that showcase rehearsal in the next update. If you have the time to leave a comment please consider doing so, I can't even tell you how much they mean to me.


	25. when we were young

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the first time ever I feel confident saying that this chapter is less than 50% angst. Raise your hand if you never thought this day would come (same guys. Same).

On Monday morning [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528672134847) hands her meal forms from the weekend over to Nurse McCall after she eats breakfast with Allison, standing anxiously in her office as she flips through them, her lips pressed together. “What happened?” she asks Lydia.

Lydia manages to stay still and not react to the question she knew was coming. “With what?”

Nurse McCall raises an eyebrow at her. “You're missing a few boxes here.”

“Not that many,” Lydia says defensively. 

Her forms aren't exactly accurate but even what's true doesn't look good, at least not compared to earlier in the week, when she was at school, all her meals consumed with Allison and neatly notated. Friday's dinner spot has been left blank, Lydia has a feeling the late night grilled sandwich Stiles made her wouldn't count anyway. Her meals for Saturday and Sunday have been filled in without any notation that the majority of what she ate at home ended up in the garbage disposal. The spaces on the forms for snacks have been left completely blank because she couldn't bring herself to do it, one last little rebellion, refusal to completely give up control.

Nurse McCall sighs and drops the papers down on her desk. “Shoes off, on the scale. Lets go.”

She's using the no-nonsense voice so Lydia drops to her knees and quickly unties her Nikes, steps out of them and hurries over to the scale. She gets on backwards and watches Nurse Mccall slide the weights around. When she finishes she looks at the number, up to the ceiling, back to the scale and then to Lydia's face. 

“What?” Lydia asks, her heart fluttering, a slow sick feeling washing over her.

“Go sit down,” Nurse McCall snaps.

Lydia ducks her head and sinks down into a padded chair. Nurse McCall picks up her wrist and wraps her fingers around it, takes her pulse, and examines Lydia's fingernails. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” she asks Lydia sternly. 

“Like what?” she whispers.

Nurse McCall drops her wrist and presses the back of her hand to Lydia's cheek, like she has a fever. “You tell me.”

“Nothing's going on,” she says weakly, because if she tells the truth she won't be able to dance anymore, and it's one thing to walk away from the showcase because of principle, but she'll be damned if it's because she wasn't strong enough.

“Lydia,” she says gently. “I can't help you if you don't tell me what happened.”

“Nothing happened,” she whispers, thinking of blue eyes in the dark, her skin crawling.

“Don't bullshit me, kiddo. You tell me what happened and we’ll work it out, or you can sit your ass in that chair and miss all your classes until you're ready to talk, I've got all day here. It's your choice.”

Lydia stares at Nurse McCall, she knows she should feel upset right now, or at least annoyed, but all she can feel is the heavy relief of surrender. There's something so reassuringly parental about it, so simple: tell the truth and be rewarded or refuse and be punished. No wonder Scott is such an honest little Boy Scout.

“I didn't eat everything it said I did on the forms,” she confesses, blinking back tears of guilt at the disappointed look on Nurse McCall’s face.

“And why not?”

Lydia tilts her head back, lifting her shoulders to give her a little shrug, because she doesn't have a good reason other than it was too hard, too much, an unreasonable goal she couldn't achieve. She ate pancakes with everyone yesterday at the diner but it still haunted her for the rest of the day, it seems to be a new pattern for her - eating the way everyone else wants her to and then being followed around by a terrible wave of shame whispering in her ear to stop, to take back control while she still can.

“I'm sorry.” She reaches up and brushes the tears away carefully with the tips of her fingers. 

“Lydia, I can't help you if you aren't honest with me.”

She sniffs delicately. “I know.”

“I shouldn't let you take class today.”

“No, please don't do that,” Lydia begs. “I ate breakfast this morning, I swear, you know Allison wouldn't lie about that even if I asked her to.”

Nurse McCall narrows her eyes. “I'd hope not.”

“Please let me take class, I won't do it again, I promise!” Desperation makes her heart pound in her chest and she curls her hands into fists, fingernails digging into her palms.

“Good, because if this happens again, you're done. I mean it.”

“Okay,” Lydia says shakily. “I understand. It won't happen again.”

“It better not.”

“It won't,” she vows solemnly, and widens her eyes beseechingly, doing her best impression of Scott's puppy dog eyes.

“Until all your vitals bounce back you're eating your snack in here now, got it?”

Lydia nods in agreement because she has no negotiating power here, other than to plead and grovel until she wears Nurse McCall down. “Then I can take class?”

Nurse McCall exhales loudly and nods. “Don't make me regret this.”

“I won't, I promise.” Lydia bends down and puts her shoes back on. “Thank you, thank you so much.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Nurse McCall waves a hand at her. “This is your last chance so don't blow it, got it?”

Lydia picks up her bag and slings the strap over her shoulder. “Got it.”

“I'm serious.”

“I know,” Lydia acknowledges.

Nurse McCall sighs. “Go on then. I'll see you back here at 3:15.”

“Okay,” Lydia says, and ducks out of Nurse McCall’s office before she can change her mind. She stops in the hallway and presses her forehead against the wall, eyes shut, breathing deeply until her heart finally stops racing.

*

After they eat dinner together that night [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528730114044) and [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528730402193) go down to the practice studio that Allison reserved earlier to help Lydia practice the lift. When they go inside Scott and Isaac are already there, laying out thick blue mats over the floor. 

“Hey!” Scott calls out cheerfully. 

“Hey, are you gonna stay and spot?” Allison drops her bag down by the mirrors and walks over to give him a quick kiss.

“Yeah, sure, Stiles can't get me for another hour anyway. We got all the mats from the gym, we figured it couldn't hurt, right?”

Allison glances back over at Lydia, whose feet have refused to move from the doorway. “You okay?”

Lydia takes a deep breath, watching Isaac lay down the last mat and swing his arms around a few times. “I'm fine.”

Allison tilts her head. “You sure?”

Lydia stares down at her fingers, forcing herself to relax her grip enough to set her bag down by the mirrors next to Allison’s. “Worst case scenario I fall and break my neck so yeah, I'm totally fine.”

“Hey.” Isaac strides over to her, long legs clad in a pair of thin grey sweatpants rolled up to his knees. “I won't drop you.”

“And Scott and I will be spotting you,” Allison adds. “We won't let you get hurt.”

“Right,” Lydia says shakily, bending down to take off her Nikes. “I know.”

Allison walks back over to her and sits down to take off her Adidas. “Do you want me to do it with Isaac first and you can watch? Maybe it'll make you feel better to see us do it first.”

“Okay,” Lydia says softly. “Yeah, sure.”

“Okay.” Allison peels her socks off and stuffs them into her shoes. “Are you going to be wearing a skirt, do you know yet?”

Lydia thinks for a second, Peter's mentioned costumes once or twice and Lydia's been fitted but she hasn't seen it yet. Peter wants her in a red leotard with some kind of white dress over it that Aiden's going to take off at the end of their first pas de deux. She knows why Allison's asking, a skirt adds an extra element to the lift that the guy has to figure out how to work around.

“I don't think so,” she tells Allison.

“Then I’ll skip the practice skirt.” Allison tugs off her black joggers, leaving her in a black practice leotard and her pale green cropped tee. “Ready?”

Lydia peels off her grey leggings and pulls her white cropped tank up over her head, stripping down to her pink practice leotard and thin pair of matching tights. “Yeah.”

They all go over to the middle of the mats; Isaac sets up his stance, feet hip width apart, and bends his knees a few times. “Lydia, you good?”

“I'm gonna go first,” Allison says. “Cool?”

Isaac gives Allison one of those adoring trusting looks that makes Lydia wonder again how Scott is so comfortable with them working so closely together. “Yeah, I think I can handle that.”

“Well, if you're sure.” Allison grins at him.

“Whenever you're ready,” he tells Allison, and smiles back, like this is fun for them, like they aren't doing something crazy and dangerous.

Lydia stands next to Scott a few feet back from Isaac; he gives her a soft smile and reaches out to squeeze her shoulder. Lydia presses her lips together tightly, adrenaline making her heart pound as Allison walks a few paces to Isaac's left and bounces on the balls of her feet, looking a little nervous but focused.

Lydia leans into Scott a little and looks at Isaac. “You have done this before, right?”

“Sure.” Isaac shrugs and cracks his knuckles. “Derek lets us all mess around at the loft as long as we put mats down and he's there to supervise.”

“I'm ready,” Allison calls out.

Isaac glances sideways at her and nods, arms loose at his sides. “On three?”

Allison grins, jumping up and down. “One!” she calls out. “Two! Three!”

She takes a few leaping steps towards Isaac and turns away from him at the last second as she jumps straight up into the air. Lydia watches carefully as Isaac slides his hand between Allison's legs and pushes her straight up over his head as his left hand wraps around her left calf. Lydia and Scott shuffle forward a bit, Scott's eyes huge as he looks up at Allison, who's high above them in the air, her spine very straight, arms relaxed and down at her sides.

“Okay, I get why you freaked out.” Allison lets out an exhilarated giggle. “You're up pretty high.”

“Okay?” Isaac asks, his arm held straight up over his head, the veins in his forearm bulging.

“Yep.” Allison glances down at Lydia without tilting forward. “He's got me, see?”

Lydia nods, her bottom lip held between her teeth. She knows Isaac won't drop Allison, she's seen him hold Allison upside down with one arm, fling her around his body at dizzying speeds. But Allison and Isaac have the advantage of years of partnering together, trust built up over time, a secret coded language of little taps and eye rolls. It's the kind of thing that can't be faked, a connection like that.

“Okay, watch how I bring her down,” Isaac tells Lydia. “Allison?”

“Ready,” she assures him.

He releases his grip on Allison's leg first, sliding his hand up towards her hip. He pulls his right hand out from between her legs where Allison's pelvis is cupped in his palm and she drops straight down, Isaac catches her around the waist and brings her down to the floor, light enough that her feet don't make a sound when they touch the mat.

“Okay,” Allison says brightly. “Your turn Lydia.”

She takes a deep breath and changes places with Allison, moving to Isaac's left as Allison slides in next to Scott and loops her arm around his waist. Isaac is watching Lydia out of the corner of his eye, hands outstretched, ready to catch her and press her up in the air. “You want to mark it first?”

“I'm okay,” she breathes, trying to project confidence even though she's starting to feel a little nauseous. “I can do it.”

“And we're right here,” Allison reminds her.

Lydia bounces up and down a few times, focusing on Isaac, the ropey muscles of his arms, his long fingers, hands that hold and manipulate Allison's body like she weighs nothing every day. He's never dropped her, not ever. She nods at Isaac and takes a few big steps to build up a little momentum before turning as she pushes up off the floor.

Isaac catches her between her legs and starts to press her up and her stomach crawls up her throat. “Wait,” she gasps wildly. 

He stops immediately, holding her at chest level, her legs dangling a few inches off the floor as she reaches out for Scott and Allison. They each step forward to take one of her hands and Lydia clutches onto their fingers, Isaac’s left hand cupping under her thigh to take some pressure off his other hand.

“You're okay,” Allison says softly. “See, we're right here. We won't let you fall.”

Lydia exhales and shuts her eyes for a second. “Sorry.”

“You're fine,” Scott reassures here. “We've got you.”

She swallows something bitter in the back of her throat. Isaac has her cradled in his palms, his chest right against her back, and Scott and Allison are in front of her holding each of her hands. There’s nowhere for her to go, no way for her to fall like this.

She's safe.

“Okay,” she says shakily. “I'm ready.”

“You sure?” Isaac asks.

“I said I'm ready.”

“Then you need to let go,” Allison reminds her.

Lydia forces herself to release her death grip on them, Scott immediately holds his hands out palm up but Allison steps back a few paces and when Lydia doesn't panic Allison tilts her head and offers Lydia a gentle smile. “See, you got it. Core in, don't look down,” she advises. 

“Okay,” Lydia breathes faintly. “Got it.”  
.  
“Okay then, up you go,” Isaac says softly, and pushes her straight up above him as he wraps his left hand around her left leg.

Lydia pulls in her stomach like Allison told her to and doesn't look down, even though she wants to. She finds her reflection in the mirror and stares at herself - she's suspended high in the air, balanced in the palm of Isaac's hand, long sure fingers holding her left leg against his body. She looks almost like she's floating, hovering over his head with only his hands keeping her connected to the ground.

“Whooooo, you did it!” Allison cheers. “Want to come down?”

“Okay.” Lydia thinks about last week, begging Aiden not to let go, plummeting through the air and collapsing on the floor as her lungs closed up, and she curls her fingers in towards her palms, willing herself not to panic.

“I'm gonna let go of your leg first,” Isaac says, walking her through it. “Then I'll slide my hand out and you're gonna drop but I'll catch you, just like I did with Allison. You don't have to do anything, just stay loose and keep your elbows in.”

“Got it.” She forces herself not to look down at the floor, her chest tightening when he lets go of her leg.

“Okay, here we go.” Isaac quickly pulls his right hand out from under her and Lydia drops, a shriek tearing out of her throat, but he catches her by the waist and swings her down to land right in front of him on the mats, just as gently as when he caught Allison.

“You did it!” Allison squeals and throws her arms around Lydia's neck. “I knew you could do it!”

Lydia smiles, feeling a little rush of relief, and turns back to Isaac. “Again?”

“Sure.” Isaac shakes his arms out. “Whenever you're ready.”

Lydia goes back to the other side of the mat and this time when she jumps up she doesn't panic, Isaac presses her up in the air in one strong fluid motion. She exhales shakily and forces herself to be still, focusing on the reassuring grip of his hands holding her up. 

“Okay?” Isaac asks.

“Yeah,” she breathes.

“You want me to bring you down?”

“Okay.” 

This time when he lets go she isn't afraid, and when Isaac sets her down she runs back across the mat so they can do it again. Isaac patiently lifts her over and over again while Scott and Allison hover, ready to offer assistance that Lydia refuses to take, she swallows her fear and lets herself relax into it, allowing herself to trust that Isaac won't drop her, and even if she does fall Scott and Allison will catch her. It starts to feel fun again, that exhilarating rush when she gets lifted up in the air, her body starting to fall into tune with Isaac’s rhythm so it's a little smoother each time they do it. It feels like how it was when they were all little, when dancing used to be fun, when they got to all be together and play, exploring what their bodies were capable of.

Before she was afraid, before she fell, before she broke. 

They work for almost an hour, until Lydia can do the lift as perfectly as she thinks she can get it, allowing Isaac to press her up in the air and hold perfectly still without showing a sliver of fear. 

“I knew you could do it,” Allison says proudly.

“Thanks,” Lydia says demurely, a little embarrassed but also pleased with herself, and turns back towards Isaac. “Really. Thank you.”

“I don't mind, it was fun.” Isaac shrugs, like it's no big deal, but when he puts his arms around her he holds her extra tight and Lydia knows he's thinking about when he found her on the back stairs after that rehearsal, pressed up against the wall on the second floor landing hyperventilating, how he had to walk her up to her room with one hand resting on her back because she was shaking so hard she could barely stay upright.

“Yeah,” she agrees softly when he finally releases her. “It was.”

They all walks over to the mirrors together to grab their stuff, Lydia and Allison put their clothes back on over their leotards while Isaac jams his feet into his Converses and Scott puts his Timberlands back on. Scott and Isaac go back to fold up the mats while Lydia and Allison put their shoes on, and then they help the guys drag all the mats back to the gym before taking the stairs up to the first floor.

“Stiles is picking me up,” Scott tells Lydia. “Want to come say hi?”

“Sure,” she says easily, feeling the way her heart jumps just at the sound of his name, the sudden anticipation at seeing him making her stomach clench.

They all hug Isaac goodbye at the elevators and cross through the lobby to go outside. Stiles is parked at the curb, when he sees Lydia he gets out and jogs around to the sidewalk, beaming at her. “Hey!” he calls out. “How was practice?”

“Good,” she says softly, smiling back at him.

It's still light out, the sun hasn't gone down yet and Stiles is here, glowing golden in the early evening light right in front of her, warm and real and beautiful, and all she can really feel all of a sudden is awe, that he's here, looking at her like this, that after everything she's put him through he's still here, looking at her like she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, even after she fell apart in front of him, exposed her every weakness and flaw.

“She did _so_ good,” Allison adds.

“Totally,” Scott agrees. “She crushed it.”

Stiles opens his arms and Lydia falls into the hug, tucking her head under his chin, breathing him in, warm skin and body spray and his heartbeat pulsing in his throat. “Hey,” he says softly. “That's awesome, I'm so proud of you.”

“Thanks,” she murmurs, pleased and only slightly embarrassed at all the attention she's getting from everyone.

“Did you get it?” Scott asks.

“Oh yeah.” Stiles chuckles as he lets Lydia go, looking downright mischievous. “We had to wait for everyone to leave, which took forever but once it was empty it was a piece of cake. In and out in ten.”

Lydia cocks her head, giving him a curious look, wondering for the first time where Stiles was that he couldn't pick Scott up until after seven. “Where were you?”

“Oh, nowhere,” he says vaguely. “Doing nothing.”

Scott steps up to the trunk of the Jeep and peers inside. “Oh my god, I can't believe you got it to fit!”

“What?” Allison asks, looking bewildered.

Stiles grins. “We may have liberated something from Devenford Prep as a senior prank.”

“Liberated?” Lydia asks, raising a questioning eyebrow at him.

“Yeah,” he says. “You know, to rescue, release from bondage.”

“Stiles.” Lydia bites the inside of her cheek so she doesn't laugh at him. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.” He widens his eyes, giving her a ridiculous faux innocent look.

“He stole their lacrosse team mascot,” Scott explains.

“Hey, there was no stealing!” Stiles exclaims. “Stealing is against the law, I would _never_ , I cannot believe what you're implying Scotty.”

“Okay.” Scott snorts. “Whatever you say.”

“We just borrowed it, I swear it'll be returned to its proper home soon.” Stiles rubs his hands together gleefully. “I wish I could see the look on Brett's face when he walks into the locker room and his stupid giant lucky monkey is gone.”

Lydia gapes at him. “A _monkey?_ Seriously?”

Stiles shrugs. “The whole Devenford Prep lacrosse team has to rub its paw before they go out on the field, it's some weird superstitious ritual. Brett's a freak.”

“You stole a stuffed monkey?”

“Liberated,” Stiles says firmly. “First thing tomorrow it's going into the glass case in the lobby of Beacon Hills High.” A dreamy expression comes over his face. “He's gonna shit a brick, I can't wait.”

“You're ridiculous,” Lydia says fondly.

“Let's get froyo!” Allison exclaims, and when everyone whips around to look at her she shrugs, grinning. “What? I'm starving and we have a giant stuffed animal in the car, we should have some fun! We've still got over an hour until curfew.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, his eyes widening. “Allison, you are freaking amazing! Yes, we're all getting frozen yogurt, right now! Us and the monkey.”

Scott crinkles his nose. “Why the monkey?”

“Oh, because we're taking pictures. We have to! Proof of life.” Stiles looks delighted. “Brett's obsessed with that dumb thing, he thinks it's got lucky mojo or something, he'll hate this.”

“Wait.” Lydia tilts her head. “You want us to all go out for frozen yogurt and be seen in public with a _stuffed monkey_ as part of some elaborate scheme to make your lacrosse rival think you've defiled his lucky charm?”

“Yeah, basically,” he responds.

Lydia shrugs. “Okay.”

Scott and Allison get into the backseat and Stiles opens the passenger door for Lydia, offering his hand palm up to help her up into the car. She drops her bag at her feet and twists to grab the seat belt but then she stops, because Stiles is standing there leaning against the frame of the car, grinning wildly at her. It's like getting a glimpse of who he must have been as a little boy, full of mischief and laughter, before his mother died, before high school and puberty and girls and lacrosse turned him into the person standing here in front of her, long limbed and quick witted and kind.

He leans into the car a little, his eyes flicking from her hair to her eyes to her lips and back up to her eyes.

“What?” she asks softly, ignoring Allison's shrieks of laughter from the backseat as Scott digs the monkey out and sets it on his lap.

“Nothing.” Stiles reaches out and brushes back a strand of her hair that’s escaped her bun. “Just - I'm just really happy right now. With everything.” He leans farther in and brushes his lips against hers in a soft kiss. “And you.”

She figured out how to do that lift without dissolving into fear, she's surrounded by people who love her, who fight for her, and there's a boy standing right in front of her, smiling, because of her. There's an unfamiliar feeling in her chest, something light and fluttery and warm, and she thinks about standing in the hallway outside her mother's office last week with Scott after he took her out to lunch and she could barely eat her sandwich without having a meltdown, when he promised her that everything would be okay.

She didn't believe him then but she's starting to now.

“Lydia?” Stiles’ hand stills on her cheek. 

“Yeah,” she says, and turns her face into his palm, relishing the feeling of his warm skin against hers. “Me too.”

*

“Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?” Allison asks the next afternoon, when she and Lydia are changing in their room.

Lydia pulls on a pair of tights and layers her black Alo [leggings](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528731240182) over them. “It's fine, Aiden and I are going to warm up together, he’ll be with me the whole time.”

Allison fastens her bra clasp and pulls a loose fitting pink tank [top](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528730804833) over her head. “And if Peter's there?”

Lydia grabs a few bobby pins from her bag and starts pinning her hair up into a bun. “Then we’ll leave.”

“Promise?”

“Hey.” Lydia walks over to Alison and gives her a hug. “Stop worrying, it'll be fine.”

“Sorry.” Allison drops her chin onto Lydia's shoulder. “I just don't want you to get hurt again.”

“I know.” Lydia tugs on Allison's ponytail gently. “I'll meet you in the cafeteria for dinner when I'm done?”

“Okay.” Allison squeezes her shoulder as she pulls away. “Good luck.”

Lydia grabs her dance bag and slings the strap over her shoulder. “Thanks.”

When she gets down to the gym Aiden's waiting for her in a pair of grey sweats and a white tee over by the barre at the far wall. “Hey,” she calls out, and sits down to untie her shoes.

“Hey.” Aiden comes over and sits down next to her. “How are you feeling?”

“Good.” Lydia kicks off her shoes and takes his hand when he offers it to stand up. “I worked on the lift last night, I feel better about it now.”

He nods, curling his fingers around hers. “Do you think Derek's coming to rehearsal?”

Lydia shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Aiden works his jaw. “C’mon, let's warm up.”

They go over to the barre and lay their left hands over it, Lydia starts a plié series and Aiden follows along with her. They move on to tendus, dégagés, and battements, working until their muscles are warm. Aiden glances at the clock and moves off the barre, walking across the gym to collect his shoes and gym bag. “Time to go.”

Lydia takes off her leggings and gets out a sheer black wrap skirt from her bag and ties it around the waist of her grey practice leotard, throws her Nikes into her bag and lets Aiden pick it up for her. He reaches down for her hand and laces their fingers together. Lydia looks up at him and offers him a soft smile, feeling a wave of gratitude. Aiden's been so steady, always ready to fight for her, lifting her up instead of letting her drag him down with her when she was lost in the darkness.

They walk down the hall in their socks to the practice studio that's been reserved for them and when they go inside Derek is there waiting for them, sitting backwards on a folding chair pushed in front of the mirrors, alone.

Aiden lifts a surprised eyebrow as he sets their gym bags down on the floor against the mirrors. “Hey, Derek.”

Lydia stops next to him, her right hand still clasped in his. “Where's Peter?” she blurts out.

“Gone,” Derek says shortly. “I'm your new rehearsal director.”

Lydia blinks at him. “When is he coming back?”

“He isn't.” Derek's face is placid, revealing nothing. “I'm taking over for him, the choreography is pretty much done anyway.”

“Can you give us a minute?” Lydia asks, and drags Aiden out into the hallway without waiting for Derek's response.

“What's wrong?” Aiden gives her a baffled look, shutting the door behind him so Derek can't hear them.

“What the hell did you tell him?” she hisses.

“Nothing! He just asked me a few questions and I answered them!”

“What kinds of questions?”

He looks away from her. “He asked if Peter had done anything else in rehearsals that could've put you in danger.”

“And you said yes.”

“It's the truth!”

“That doesn't mean I wanted everyone to know what he did to me!”

“Lydia, this is a good thing! Peter's gone, he's out and we're in, we won! Why are you upset?”

The question stops her cold. He's right, it's a good thing, it's supposed to be a good thing. Has Peter screwed her up so badly that she can't even see that? 

_Look at you, my darling. I'm going to make you a star._

But he didn't, he shattered her into jagged little pieces instead, turned her into something small and broken, a girl who’s still being put back together.

“Sorry,” she exhales. “You're right.”

He gives her a cheeky grin. “I don't think you've ever said that before.”

“Don't get used to it.”

Aiden laughs. “So are we good, can we go in now and kick some ass?”

“Yeah.” Lydia takes his hand and follows him back into the studio, where Derek's waiting for them.

“Everything okay?” He gives them a bemused glance.

“We're good,” Aiden says firmly.

“Okay.” Derek runs a hand through his hair and pulls his phone out of the pocket of his jeans. “How about you run through the piece for me first and we’ll go from there?”

Aiden glances at Lydia, she nods and sits down on the the floor to get her pointe shoes on. When she's ready she follows Aiden to the middle of the studio. He runs his hands up and down her bare arms, looking over her shoulder at Derek, who's hooking his phone up to the speakers in the corner of the studio. “What do you want to do about the lift?”

“I can do it,” she says quietly. “I'm going to slow it down a little coming into it but we should do it.”

“Are you sure? We don't have to.”

“No, I can do it. Just don't” -

“I would never,” he says heatedly. “C’mon, you have to know that.”

“Are you ready?” Derek calls out.

Lydia catches Aiden's hands in hers. Aiden, who apologized after the only time he took advantage of her trust when they practiced alone that one time, his lips running up and down her neck, promising her oblivion, who held her hand in his so seriously after, _I just want to be a good guy for you._

She releases him and starts walking over towards stage left, looking over her shoulder at Derek. “Ready.”

Aiden jogs backwards until he's in the right upstage corner of the studio and Lydia gets into her opening pose, ankles crossed, arms down in front of her, hands stacked on top of each other, fingers pointed down, her head tilted up to an imaginary sky. Her heartbeat sounds too loud in her ears, her chest tightening, knowing that this has to go well; if she dances badly for Derek, if she can't prove that she's worth all the trouble she's putting him through, she’ll never get into the company.

The music starts, that sweet little flute beginning to play, and Lydia comes to life. She bourrés to the side, whirls and leaps, takes little pauses occasionally before pretending to pick flowers. She keeps her lungs open, taking deep breaths as she moves, focusing on her lines, her extensions, rolling through her feet when she lands her jumps, keeping her face soft, doing a pas de chat over an imaginary log as Aiden begins to leap around the space behind her. 

She travels across the studio and does a series of pirouettes, and when she comes out of them Aiden is right there, smiling wolfishly at her, and Lydia does exactly what she's supposed to do, a sliver of instinctual fear running up her spine.

She runs.

He catches her by the arms and Lydia pretends stumble as she falls into the set up for pirouettes. She goes up en pointe and lets Aiden spin her around, she leans to the side so she falls a little off her pointe and lets him pull her back to him, the turns getting more exaggerated until she comes out of the last one and breaks away. She runs and runs in a circle back towards the center of the studio for the catch. Aiden grabs her from behind and she throws out her legs as he spins her and tosses her up in the air. She rotates halfway around to face him and he catches her under her arms, their eyes connecting as she slides down his body until the tips of her pointe shoes hit the floor.

There's a little moment that passes between them, his hand firm on her left thigh as she wraps her leg around his waist. Aiden gives her the barest wink and Lydia returns it before dropping back upside down, arms curved over her head. He uses his left hand to help pull her up and Lydia collapses her upper body against him while staying up on relevé, her right leg trembling with the effort of holding her up. There's a strange moment when she looks up, where she and Aiden stare at each other, and then she realizes it's because no one is yelling at them, this is the first time they've done a run through without being stopped and screamed at.

Aiden releases her leg and she slowly rotates it around until it's high above her in an arabesque. He turns her to the side and slides his arm between her legs, bringing her up off the floor, and Lydia turns in his arms to wraps them around his waist, her heels digging into his back as he lets go and she falls upside down. She holds the pose for a few second and then Aiden swings her up and tosses her up in the air. When he catches her Lydia wraps her arms around his neck and Aiden's hands slide to her waist, her legs dangling off the floor.

He walks her across the studio, a recent choreography change, giving them a moment to connect, just breathe together, letting the audience feel the energy shift between them. She looks up at him, letting her natural affection for him take over, falling into the seduction like Peter wanted her to, letting her lips part, her eyes widen, slowly trailing her fingers down the sides of his face as he sets her down on the floor.

She breaks into her solo as he leaps away from her, doing a grand allegro combination downstage, watching Derek watch her as she flirts with an imaginary audience, lifting her right leg to the side as she does her fouetté turns, bringing it into passé as she turns and extending it back out to the side, over and over again as the music swells. When she comes out of the last turn she drops to the side and Aiden's right there, catching the back of her neck with his right hand as his other arm comes under her knees and he picks her up. Aiden spins and spins with her held tightly in his arms until her finally lowers her slowly down to the floor.

She leaps right back up and Aiden catches her, drops her down for an assisted arabesque, swinging her up and down before he lunges to the right and lays Lydia back over his thigh. She points her toes, arches her back, does everything she can to look like she's at the height of ecstasy, Peter screaming at her inside her head.

_What are you, a virgin?_

Aiden brings her up by the wrists, her spine rolling as he pulls her up to relevé. They're almost done, he whips her through assisted pirouettes and steps back when Lydia opens up her leg and brings it behind herself for a final arabesque. They both leap away from each other for their last jump combination and Lydia spins around to face Aiden where he's waiting for her in the center of the studio. Instead of running she freestyles it, does a few chassés and turns away from Aiden as she jumps up.

He cups her between her legs and presses her up straight above his hand, his left hand finding her left leg and Lydia doesn't panic or scream or cry, she points her toes and keeps her head up and slowly raises her arms above her head in high fifth as the music ends.

Aiden taps two fingers against her leg in warning and then she's falling through the air, his hands catching her at the waist as he lowers her to the floor. Aiden spins her to face him and he gives her a look of amazed disbelief - they haven't danced this well together since their very first rehearsal with Peter, when they improved for him.

“Okay, let's go again,” Derek says behind them, breaking the moment. “Lydia, I’d like to see that first combination please.

She nods dutifully and steps back from Aiden, turning to walk to her beginning position and arranging herself into her opening pose. Derek walks over to her, glancing back at Aiden. “Go do some push ups,” he instructs, and Aiden rolls his eyes but he walks over to stage right and drops down on the floor.

“Okay.” Derek stands a few feet away from her, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Whenever you're ready.”

She tilts her head up, taking a slow breath before she rises up on relevé. She does the bourrés and barely makes it through the first small jump combination before Derek stops her with a click of his tongue. She comes down from relevé and walks over to him, hanging her head, shame hot in her chest, that she's already done something wrong.

She jumps when she feels his hand on her shoulder but a second later it's gone, and when she looks up at him he has a patient expression on his face, not displeasure. “What are you thinking about?” he asks. “When you perform this?”

She stares at him. “What?”

Derek gives her just a hint of a smile. “Close your eyes.”

“Why?” she asks warily.

His hand comes back to her shoulder, his touch very light. “Humor me.”

She exhales loudly but does as he says, and lets her eyes slip shut.

“Good,” he says softly. “So - this is about innocence, right? In the beginning anyway.” There's a bit of a cutting undertone to his voice.

“Yes.”

“Okay. So let's just take a moment to remember what that feels like.”

Lydia blinks at him and hurriedly shuts her eyes again. “What what feels like?”

“Being young.” Derek's voice is low, a little hypnotic. “Before anything bad happened. Before anyone ever left you or hurt you. When you could go outside and be filled with wonder. Before you knew what it felt like to be afraid.”

To her surprise tears pool behind her closed eyelids. She thinks about being a little girl, bold, fearless, determined. Strong and sure in her naïveté, believing the world and everyone in it to be on her side, before her father left, before Jackson dropped her, before she started seeing wolves in the dark.

She lets out a shuddery exhale, a few hot tears slipping down her cheeks, and Derek rubs his thumb back and forth over her shoulder. “Sorry,” she whispers.

“It's okay. You're doing fine.” His voice is very quiet, like he's trying not to spook her. “Breathe. Just breathe for a minute. Let it go.”

She stands there with her eyes closed and lets the tears fall as her chest rises and falls with her breath, his hand steady on her shoulder, until some of the tension in her chest releases and she lets out a long relieved sigh.

“There you go,” he says softly. “You're safe here. That little girl can come out and play. That's what this section is about. Remembering what it feels like to play. Don't worry about being perfect or trying to make me feel a certain way. Focus on what you feel. Let it anchor you.”

She tilts her head back and nods, inhaling hard against the last of her tears as she opens her eyes. “Okay. I can do that.”

“Good.” Derek pats her shoulder and walks back a few paces. “Then let's do it again.”

Lydia wipes her face with the back of her hand and gets back into her opening position. She takes a deep breath and tries to hold onto that warm feeling from last night, that playfulness, that easy joy, and starts to dance, and this time Derek doesn't stop her. She makes it through the entire section, feeling lighter and lighter, until she gets to the place where Aiden is supposed to catch her. 

She stops in place and looks at Derek, who's watching her with an unreadable expression on his face, making her wait an agonizingly long time, before he gives her a satisfied nod. “Very nice. Let's move on,” he says.

Lydia follows him across the floor, catching Aiden's grin as he meets them in the center of the studio, and Lydia smiles back, hope and pride swelling in her chest, because he's right, Peter's gone but they're still here, they're still in the showcase, and if they can keep dancing like this they're going to be stars.

They won.


	26. let's play what if

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it looks like 30 will be our final chapter count (according to my current outline anyway). You all are such troopers for sticking with this!

“Well that's more like it,” Nurse McCall says with satisfaction on Wednesday morning as she flips through Lydia's meal forms from the past two days. “Shoes off, you know the drill.”

[Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528741063754) kicks off her Nikes and walks over to the scale. When Nurse McCall weighs her she doesn't say anything, just squeezes her forearm gently and tells her to sit down so she can check her blood pressure.

“Much better,” Nurse McCall declares, looking pleased. “You are free to go until Friday.”

“Really?” Lydia asks hopefully.

Nurse McCall smiles. “Really.”

Lydia reaches for her shoes and puts them back on. “Thank you.”

“You earned it.” Nurse McCall hands Lydia her dance bag. “You come back here before then if you feel like you're backsliding, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Promise me.”

Lydia shoulders her bag. “I promise.”

Nurse McCall winks at her. “Good, now get your butt to class.”

Lydia smiles. “Okay.”

“Hey.” Nurse McCall’s hand rests on Lydia's wrist. “I know you're working hard at this and I'm proud of you.”

Lydia's throat tightens unexpectedly. “Thank you.” She hesitates for a moment but then she reaches out and wraps her arms around Nurse McCall.

She hugs Lydia back, a real hug, pulling her to her chest and holding her tight, rocking her a little, like Lydia is her baby. “You know you're one of my favorites, right?” she whispers.

Lydia lets out a breathy sigh, overwhelmed by the affection. “Yeah.”

Nurse McCall laughs and kisses the top of Lydia's head before releasing her. “Go kick some ass, sweetheart.”

“Yes ma’m.” Lydia wiggles her eyebrows playfully, holding one hand up in goodbye before she leaves.

She takes the elevator up to the third floor and catches sight of [Malia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528740918443) up ahead, her right hand still in a splint. She's wearing cutoffs and a cropped grey tee shirt that's slipping off one shoulder; she hasn't taken class since she broke her hand, just observes in the front of the studio by the mirrors while they all dance around her. There's no one else in the hallway but them so Lydia jogs to catch up with her, quietly calling out Malia's name.

“Hey.” Malia's dirty Converse sneakers squeak against the floor when she turns around. “What's up?”

Lydia wraps her fingers around Malia's left wrist. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Malia bites her lip and tilts her head towards the elevator where a group of level sixes have just spilled out of the doors. Lydia tightens her grip on Malia and pulls her down the hall and into the girls’ bathroom. She quickly checks under each stall to make sure they're alone before turning around to face Malia, who's leaning against a sink looking bewildered.

“Do you know where Peter is?” Lydia asks her bluntly.

Malia shrugs. “Wherever he's staying while he's here, I guess. Why?”

Lydia stares at her, shocked. “You don't know?”

“Know what?”

“Malia, Peter's gone.”

Malia blinks rapidly. “What?”

“You didn't know?”

“Know what? What are you talking about?” Malia brings her left hand to her mouth and starts chewing on her pinky nail.

Lydia lets out an exasperated sigh and steps forward to pull Malia's finger out of her mouth. “Don't do that.”

Malia's arm goes limp in Lydia's grip. “What do you mean, gone? What are you talking about?”

Malia gives Lydia one of those wide eyed confused looks that make her look younger than she really is and Lydia sighs, looking past Malia's shoulder to stare at her own face in the mirror as she prepares to tell Malia that her father left her. “Derek found out about some things he did in our rehearsals. He's taking over as our rehearsal director.”

Malia blinks rapidly. “So Derek made him leave?”

“I don't know,” Lydia says. “Derek just said he was gone and he wasn't coming back.”

Malia pulls her fingers out of Lydia's hold and rubs her eyes with the heel of her hand. “He didn't even tell me he was leaving.”

“Malia” -

“Whatever.” Malia sniffs and looks away. “It's not like he gave a shit about me anyway.”

Lydia swallows, a familiar ache rising in her chest. “Hey, come on, don't say that.”

“What?” Malia gives her a pointed look. “We both know it's true.”

“You're still his daughter,” Lydia points out softly.

“Lucky me,” Malia says weakly.

“I'm sorry,” Lydia whispers.

“It's not your fault.” 

Lydia swallows back all of the _what ifs_ : what if she and Aiden hadn't told, what if Peter hadn't made them try that lift. What if he'd never chased her in the dark, or called her darling, or made her beautiful false promises of stardom. What if Laura hadn't died, what if Jackson hadn't dropped her last spring. What if Lydia had never gotten into the school, what if her dream had been MIT, winning a Fields Medal, instead of dancing until her toes bled six days a week for eight years so she could get into the company of her dreams.

There are too many questions, potentials, ways things could have been different. She looks at Malia, abandoned over and over again, her bottom lip wobbling, and thinks of what would've happened to her if she'd never been in that accident with her adoptive family, if she'd never gone into foster care, if Talia Hale hadn't known about her, if Derek had never looked for her, if she'd just been Malia Tate, and not the secret daughter of a monster.

Lydia can't change anything that's already happened, she doesn't have any power over the past.

She only has control over what she does now.

“It's okay,” she whispers, and carefully folds her arms around Malia’s body. “It's okay to be sad.”

“I'm not sad,” Malia says tremulously, reaching up to clutch Lydia's shoulders.

“It's okay if you are,” Lydia murmurs.

“Okay,” Malia croaks, curling over like she's been punched in the stomach, and then she starts to cry.

*

“Hey, I need to go do something,” Lydia tells [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528741242558) later that morning, after pointe class. “Meet you in the cafeteria in twenty?”

Allison leans back against the wall in the hallway outside Studio B, looking apprehensive. “What do you have to do?”

“Just talk to Derek about our rehearsal tomorrow,” Lydia reassures her. “It shouldn't take very long, we just need to work a few things out.”

“Okay.” Allison hooks her arm around Lydia's elbow and walks down the hallway with her to the elevator and they get in with a bunch of level sevens going down for lunch.

Lydia gets out on the second floor and walks down to Derek's office. She doesn't have an appointment but she's not too concerned about doing a drop in. Their rehearsal last night went as well as could possibly be expected, all things considered, after all. And she wasn't lying to Allison, not really.

She does need to work a few things out.

She knocks her fist against the heavy door and after a few seconds she can hear Derek call out, “It's open!”

She takes a deep breath and pushes the door open. Derek's sitting behind his desk, laptop open, looking exhausted. “Hey Lydia, everything okay?”

She nods, hovering in the doorway. “Do you have a minute?”

He shuts his laptop and offers her a wan smile. “Of course. What's up?”

She doesn't close the door all the way but she shuts it enough that the sound of their voices shouldn't carry too far and crosses the room, sinking down into the leather chair that's in front of his desk. She sets her bag down on the floor and crosses her legs under herself, playing with the hem of her pink mesh workout top.

“Lydia,” Derek prompts softly. “Are you okay?”

“Is Peter really gone?” she blurts out.

Derek sighs heavily, reaching over his head for a moment to stretch his arms. “He’s in New York. There's an artist retreat upstate, he's doing some postmodern shit there that he was interested in. He was going to go after the showcase anyway, he just went a little earlier than planned.”

“Why?”

He gives her a pointed look. “You know the answer to that.”

“I mean…” She swallows back a frustrated sound. “How exactly did he decide to go early?”

Derek leans back in his chair. “You're asking me if I made him leave.”

“Did you?”

“We had a - conversation. About what was going on. And then Peter left.”

She stares at him. “Just like that?”

“Is that not good enough?” Derek raises an eyebrow at her. “I told Aiden I would take care of it and I meant it.”

She presses her lips together and has to look away. “Thank you.”

“Don't. Don't do that.” When she looks back up Derek look serious and a little bereft. “I should have stepped in a long time ago.”

“You didn't know,” Lydia says softly.

“I knew enough,” he mutters. “I knew something was wrong but you weren't talking to anyone so I didn't have any proof.”

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you,” she whispers.

Derek shrugs. “It's not your fault. I know what it's like to be a teenager and have secrets you feel like you have to protect.”

Lydia blinks at the oblique reference to Kate. “So he really isn't coming back?”

“No,” Derek confirms. “I'm in charge now.”

“Okay,” Lydia breathes, almost unable to believe in.

“So are we good?” Derek asks. “Anything else you want to ask me?”

“Actually.” Lydia tilts her head to the side, doing a split second mental evaluation. “There is one more thing.” 

“And that would be?”

She takes a deep breath and looks Derek right in the eye. “There's a rumor going around that you already gave Malia the second spot in the company in some kind of secret backdoor deal with Peter.”

For a few seconds Derek just stares at her. “The second spot?”

Lydia huffs a little, annoyed that Derek's pretending he doesn't know what she's talking about. “Everyone knows the company is taking two girls this year. Cora's getting the first spot obviously, and I want to know if the rumor that Malia is getting the second spot is true.”

He gives her a curious look. “What do you mean, everyone knows there are two spots? How exactly do you know that?”

Lydia stares at him, speechless. She doesn't know how she knows it, it's just one of those things everyone's heard from someone who heard it from someone else, the story repeated enough that it eventually became a universally accepted truth without ever actually being proven a fact. 

“Everyone says so.” She feels silly as soon as the words are out of her mouth, she sounds so sophomoric, like a little high school gossip queen, but she has no other explanation.

“Really?” he says mildly.

Lydia has to physically resist letting her jaw drop. “Are you saying that's not true?”

Derek suddenly looks amused. “I'm saying you shouldn't listen to rumors.”

She sits there, stunned. “Because they aren't true?”

Derek gets up from his chair and leans against the window. “Cora used to talk about you all the time when you were kids, did you know that?”

She blinks. “What?”

He grins a little. “She used to say you were her only real competition.”

“I don't know why you're telling me this,” she says helplessly.

“Lydia.” Derek's voice is clear and firm. “If you want a spot in the company then show me you want it. Fight for it. Nothing has been decided yet. It's your future, you're in control. You do want to dance in the company, don't you?”

She nods, her fingers curled into her palms, legs pressed together so he can't see the way she's trembling. “Yes.”

“Good,” he says, looking pleased. “Now go to lunch, you need to eat before partnering.”

She ducks her head as she picks up her bag, reeling. “Okay,” she murmurs, and get up, resisting the urge to drop into a reverence, show him proper respect, like she would in a class. “Thank you.”

“No problem. I'll see you tomorrow,” he says cordially, and walks her to the door.

*

“Breathe,” Derek says the next afternoon, as [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528741786087) dangles in Aiden's arms, her chest pressed against his, her toes pointed down at the floor. “Slow, slow. Take your time. Feel each other.”

Lydia looks up at Aiden and they both inhale together, abdomens expanding in tandem. They've been practicing the little section after the drops, where he tosses her up and then catches her, her arms looping around his neck as he holds her against his body as he slowly walks across the floor, over and over for the past twenty minutes while Derek makes them practice breathwork.

She's never worked liked this before, with the focus on her own breath, her awareness of what she feels, letting that direct her movements instead of muscling through everything, obsessing over her technique. Anytime she and Aiden start to breathe out of sync they start over until they're breathing like one, their chests rising and falling as they stare at each other, their bodies pressed together. She feels a little zoned, hyper aware and strangely calm, like the only thing that exists right now is her breath and her body and Aiden moving against her, the rise and fall of his chest, the soft sound of Derek's instructions as they slowly move across the studio floor.

“Good,” Derek says softly. “Don't lose the breath, that's what keeps you connected. Do you feel that?”

They both nod, eyes laser focused on each other, slowly inhaling and exhaling over and over again.

“Okay, you can put her down,” Derek tells Aiden. “Moving on. Lydia, let's start with your solo, Aiden, you can take five, your arms okay?”

“Yeah I'm good.” Aiden sets Lydia down gently on the floor and walks over towards to the mirrors to get a drink from his water bottle, letting out a satisfied _ahhh_ when he swallows.

Lydia walks over to the spot on the floor where her solo starts and waits for Derek to back up to the speakers and start the music for her. When it begins she bends her knees and leaps up for her jump combination, traveling upstage until she gets to her fouettés. She smirks as she turns, licks her lips, shows off her legs, thinking _sexy sexy sexy_ , startling when Derek claps his hands before she can finish the turn combination.

She drops down from relevé, curling her hands into fists behind her back, watching as Derek stops the music. He tilts his head curiously and Lydia tries not to shake as he walks over to her. “Why do you do it that way?” he asks, gesturing loosely at her face. “Is that what you feel when you dance this?”

She swallows back a rush of fear, remembering Peter's hands on her face, her throat, the top of her head. _What is it going to take for you to give me what I need?_

She shakes her head no and stares down at her toes so she doesn't cry, tensing as Derek approaches her.

“Look,” he sighs. “We're keeping the steps but you don't have to perform everything exactly the way he wanted it. Don't dance it the way you think I want you to if it's not genuinely what you feel. Your job is to make me feel what _you_ feel. So. What do you feel when you perform this?”

She thinks about how easy it would've been for Peter to crush her throat with his hands, decorate her skin with bruises, how she shivered with alternating terror and delight every time he shamed or praised her. How she let him break her down a little more in every rehearsal, how he crawled inside her head so there was no safe place for her to go, even in her own mind. How he took something she loved and made it into a war zone, a constant battle, full of danger, fought and pushed her until she broke, laid down right here on the studio floor drowning.

“Angry,” she says, her voice shaking. “I feel angry.”

“Good,” he says shortly. “You should be.”

She looks up at him, startled, but Derek just nods at her and walks back to the speakers. “Again,” he says. “The way you really feel. Show me.”

She walks back to her starting position and waits for Derek to start the music over. This time she doesn't concentrate on being seductive, desirable, sexy. She feels into her anger, the fire in her belly, the tightness in her chest, letting her simmering fury fuel her as she jumps through the air. She doesn't smile when she goes into her fouettés, she doesn't lick her lips or wink or flirt in the mirror. She turns and turns, imagining slicing circles with her pointe shoes as she stretches her right leg out to the side, whirling around and around and around.

She comes down after her last turn, a little out of breath, her cheeks hot. In the mirror her eyes look hard, she looks like a femme fatale, not a little Lolita, but like a real woman, who can think for herself, feel her own feelings, refuse to bend to a man’s will.

When she looks at Derek he's blinking up at the ceiling, walking away from her to stop the music. “That's better,” he says, sounding strangely hoarse. “Good work.”

Relief makes her curl over, resting her hands on her thighs as she catches her breath. “I can do it again.”

He shakes his head, his eyes looking a bit glassy. “Get some water. Aiden, you're up.”

Lydia trades places with him, slapping her palm against Aiden's when he holds his hand up to her, a wide grin on his face. “Kick ass,” he praises.

She smirks, drunk on newfound confidence. “You know it.”

She sits cross legged on the floor and sips from her water bottle, watching Derek gesture with his hands as he talks something through with Aiden, her heart doing a little fluttery victory dance in her chest.

She's doing it. She can do it.

She's going to dance in the showcase and she's going to become a star - and she's going to do it her way.

*

“I can't believe our last full week is over,” [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528742455225) says wistfully on Friday afternoon from where she's sitting on the edge of her bed, watching [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528742257778) pack for the weekend.

Next week the level eights only have class through Wednesday, they're spending all of Thursday up at the company’s theatre in San Francisco for tech and then they have their dress rehearsal on Friday, the day before the showcase.

“I can't believe the showcase is in a week from tomorrow.” Lydia lays a sports bra on top of all her other clothes and zips her weekender shut.

“I know. Time is going way too fast.” Allison sighs and leans back on her elbows. “I don't even want to think about it. It's my last real performance.”

Lydia doesn't look up from where she's packing her dance bag on the floor, leaning against the foot of her bed. “You chose that,” she says under her breath.

“I can still be sad about it!” Allison shoots back.

“Okay.” Lydia holds her hands up in the air. “I'm just saying, your entire future doesn't depend on how you dance. You actually get to enjoy it.”

“Can we not make this a competition?” Allison sniffs. “I know you think I'm like, the worst friend ever for abandoning you but could we not do this?”

When Lydia looks up at her Allison's cheeks are flushed and she looks like she's going to cry. Lydia sighs and pushes off the floor to cross the room, sits down next to Allison and puts her arm around her. “You're not the worst friend ever.”

“Thanks,” Allison mumbles, and drops her head onto Lydia's shoulder.

“I'm sorry you're sad,” she murmurs.

Allison makes a little choking noise, like she's swallowing a sob. “It's just bittersweet I guess.”

“Allison.” Lydia runs her fingers through Allison’s hair. “Are you sure you want to quit? It's not too late, you could still get company offers after the showcase.”

Allison sits up and wipe a few tears away with the edge of her hand. “No, it's not that. I've been thinking about this for a long time, it's not like I'd just quit without being sure first.”

“How long?” Lydia asks.

Allison's eyes fill with tears as she looks away. “Since level six?”

“Allison!”

Allison flinches. “I know! I know, okay?”

“Why didn't you ever say anything?”

Allison lifts an uncertain shoulder. “Mom and Dad wouldn't have let me quit anyway. It didn't matter. And it's - I love ballet. And I love being here at school, and living with you, and dancing with Isaac. But it doesn't make me happy anymore, Lydia.”

“Allison, are you sure this isn't about Scott?” she asks carefully.

Allison huffs a little. “I'm not quitting because of Scott. Come on, it's not like that.”

“But you said level six,” Lydia says gently. “And that was when you and Scott” -

“It's not about Scott!” Allison looks frustrated. “Scott doesn't care if I dance or not, we’d be together either way, it's not about him, it's about me, okay? I just didn't realize until him.”

“What do you mean?”

Allison blinks and a few tears spill over her cheeks. “Scott was the first person who made me feel like he saw me for me. Not a dancer, not some mini Kate. He made me want things I didn't know I could want. He made me feel like - like maybe it was more important for me to be happy than to do what everyone else wanted for me? You know what my parents are like. I never had a choice about anything. Where I lived. What I wore. What activities I did. They put me in ballet because we're Argents, Kate danced and my mom danced and… I don't want to be like them, Lydia. I can't be like them.”

“You're not.” Lydia squeezes Allison's shoulder. “You're nothing like them.”

Allison's face crumples. “But don't you get it? If I stay it'll be because I feel like I have to, because they did it. And I'll get angry and resentful and bitter” -

“Okay,” Lydia says. “I get it.”

“I'm eighteen,” Allison says thickly. “And my legs hurt all the time. My feet are completely messed up. No matter how much sleep I get it never feels like enough. I'm constantly hungry from working out so much but then sometimes I feel guilty for eating what I want instead of like, a _ballerina_ , and not being like, you know” -

“Allison,” Lydia says sharply. “Don't say that.”

“Sorry.” Allison rounds her shoulders forward, hunching over. “I'm just saying, I'm not totally immune to it. It's like, impossible to be here and not be a little obsessed.”

“Yeah,” Lydia sighs.

“I get jealous of the girls Scott goes to school with because all their problems seem so normal,” Allison confesses. “Remember what we were talking about the night before casting went up?”

“What would you do if you were a normal girl?”

“I think I'd like to find out,” Allison says softly. “I love dancing, I'm always going to but” - she covers her mouth like a second before giving Lydia a wobbly smile, like she's one second from a full on meltdown. “But I can't do it anymore.”

“Okay,” Lydia whispers, and wraps her arms tightly around Allison. “Okay.”

“You should go,” Allison whispers back. “Your mom's waiting.”

“She can wait a few more minutes,” Lydia murmurs.

*

When Lydia finally goes downstairs she walk out of the elevator and runs right into [Malia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528742647915), who's dressed to go out in an embroidered mango colored cropped tank and her denim cutoffs, hair down and wavy, fingers playing with the strap of her little black bag.

“Hey,” Lydia says. “Where’re you going?”

Malia gives her a deer in the headlights kind of look. “Uh… dinner with Kira.”

Lydia narrows her eyes at her, Kira flew to New York after technique this morning for an audition with ABT tomorrow. “Try again.”

Malia chews on her bottom lip. “I have to do something?”

“Something like what?”

Malia's eyes dart around the empty lobby. “I think I found my birth mom.”

Lydia gapes at her. “You - what? How?”

“I went into Derek's office at the loft and snooped for awhile. He has all our papers, like our social security cards and everything in his safe, it wasn't that hard to guess the code.” Malia has the grace to look guilty. “It's the day of the fire.”

“Jesus Malia.”

“He has a copy of my birth certificate,” Malia whispers fervently. “It was right there. Her name.”

“So what, you're just going to run away a week before the showcase to find the woman who gave you up? Are you serious right now?”

“She's my _mom_.” Malia blinks rapidly. “I'm not running away, I looked her up. She lives in Reno, that's less than three hours away. I just want to see her.”

“Okay, just - just stay here for a minute, okay?” Lydia drags her across the lobby and pushes her into a chair. “Don't move, I'll be right back, okay?”

Malia nods, picking at the shredded hem of her shorts. “Okay.”

Lydia grabs her bags and takes them into her mother's office. Her mom is waiting for her, her tote bag slung over her shoulder. “Ready to go sweetheart?”

“I can't, I'm going out to dinner with Malia.”

“Lydia” -

“Mom, it's fine, I won't be out late.”

“But sweetheart, you've got to go up to the theatre to take photos in the morning” -

“Mr Argent is renting a car for Allison for the week so she doesn't have to take the bus back and forth, she doesn't have to pick me up until noon.”

Her mother sighs. “Fine. Go.”

Lydia drops her bags down on the couch. “Thanks.”

Her mother sighs and Lydia hesitates, ever since that terrible meeting in Derek's office things with her mom have been tense, even though Lydia feels like she's made an active effort to try harder over the past two weeks her mother doesn't seem to notice, she reacts to everything Lydia does and says with mild irritation. Lydia walks over and places a careful kiss on her mother's cheek. “I'll see you at home,” she says, and walks out of the office.

Malia's waiting right where Lydia left her, long muscular legs crossed at the ankle, the laces of her dirty sneakers drooping towards the floor. Lydia leans up against the arm of the sofa, raising an eyebrow at Malia. “So what, you were just going to hop on a bus to Vegas without telling anyone?”

“Yes?” Malia looks a little sheepish but also determined. “There's a bus that goes right from Sacramento to Reno, it's only two and a half hours.”

Lydia sighs. “Let's go then, if we leave now we might actually make it back before midnight.”

“Wait, you'll go with me?”

Lydia reaches for Malia's good hand and pulls her up from the couch. “Well I can't let you go alone. I take it Derek doesn't know about this?”

“That would mean explaining how I got an address for her in the first place.”

“Well, come on then.” Lydia walks through the lobby and Malia skips to keep up with her as they rush out the front doors.

They walk down to the end of the block and wait at the bus stop. Lydia leans against the little plexiglass shelter and ignores the way her stomach rumbles a little, she hasn't had dinner yet. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I have to,” Malia replies. “I have to at least see if she's still there.”

“You're not even sure it's the right address?”

“I could only find an old listing. Apparently she's not big on social media, it was the only thing I could find.”

“Malia,” Lydia says hesitantly. “Are you sure that she _wants_ to be found?”

“I'm her daughter,” Malia says stubbornly. “I don't give a shit if she doesn't want to be found, I deserve answers. I deserve to know why she and Peter” - Malia's mouth snaps shut for a second. “I just need to know. You don't have to come.”

“I'm not letting you go alone,” Lydia protests. “I just think you should be careful. You might find out something you don't like.”

“Something worse than my mother abandoning me hours after I was born?” Malia retorts. “I think I can handle this.”

When the next bus comes they both get on and flash their bus passes, Lydia makes her way along to the back of the bus and sits down, Malia squeezing in next to her. It's hard to believe that it's been only a few months since they took the bus with Isaac and Allison to that party after the Gala, before their showcase evaluation, before everything changed so much. She feels so much older now, scarred inside in a way she wasn't then, when she thought being noticed by Peter Hale would be the best thing that could ever happen to her.

It only takes twenty minutes to get to Sacramento, they get off the bus at just after seven. Lydia glances around, it's still light out, the streets crowded with people going home after work or out to dinner. Malia glances down at her phone and tugs on Lydia's arm. “C’mon, this way.”

They walk two blocks to another bus station, Malia clearly mapped this out ahead of time because there's a Greyhound parked at the curb leaving for Nevada in five minutes. They buy tickets and board, pushing past groups of twenty somethings dressed to party in Vegas, a few college students with duffles heading home for the summer, overworked mothers with small children crawling over them.

They find two empty seats next to each other towards the back and sit down, Malia next to the window and Lydia in the aisle seat. A few minutes later the bus pulls away from the station and Lydia looks past Malia out the window, a strange sinking feeling in her stomach that this was a mistake, taking off like this, like a quick round trip visit to Nevada on a Friday night to find Malia's birth mom is no big deal. 

It's crazy, is what it is. She has no idea where exactly they're going or what could be waiting for them. They don't even have a plan.

No one even knows they're gone.

Lydia turns away from Malia, towards the aisle, and slips her phone out of her bag. After only a moment's hesitation she sends a group text because she's going to need someone with a car (Stiles) and someone who can handle Malia if everything falls apart (Scott). 

It only takes a minute for Stiles to text her back: _Going to pick up Scott now, text me the address when you get there and we’ll find you_

Lydia exhales slowly, relief settling over her like a blanket. It's a strange feeling, to realize how easy it is to get help, now that she's brave enough to ask for it.

Next to her Malia is jiggling her leg up and down, her splinted hand held protectively against her chest. Lydia taps her left knee against Malia’s right. “You want to talk about it?”

Malia shrugs, staring out the window as the bus merges onto the highway. “She might not even be there.”

“And yet here we are.”

Malia cracks her neck. “Once I saw her name I couldn't stop thinking about it. I was born in San Francisco so I knew she had to live on the West Coast. So then I went back and looked up the companies he worked with the year I was born and who was dancing for them back then. I found someone with her name, the age was right. It has to be her, right?”

“Probably” Lydia agrees. “Did you - was there a picture?"

Malia plays with the ends of her hair. “She was dark. Like me. Pretty. She - it could be her. And she definitely worked with Peter because I found a bunch of articles about the two of them, he was a guest choreographer when she was dancing with the Nevada Ballet Theatre. So even if it's somehow not her she would know who my mother is.”

“And Derek has no idea you know?”

Malia shakes her head. “I don't think he'd get it. He's so freaking over protective.”

“I don't know,” Lydia hedges. “He's only like that because he cares about you.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Malia mumbles. “It's just - it's not about him. I - I need to know. For me. You know?”

“Yeah,” Lydia says softly, because she can't imagine living like that, not knowing where she comes from, or who she belongs to, always playing what if in her head because she doesn't have the answers.

It takes two and a half hours to get to Reno, when Malia and Lydia get off the bus it's dark out, fluorescent lights shining inside the bus station. “Do you know where we're going?” Lydia asks, shivering in the air conditioning; she's wearing a thin floral print top with ruffled sleeves tucked casually into the waistband of her navy crepe shorts.

“It's not far, we can walk it.” Malia holds her phone up and Lydia squints to read the address under the red pin.

She covertly texts it to Stiles as she follows Malia out of the bus station and a minute later he texts back, _twenty minutes away._

He must be speeding, she thinks, and pockets her phone as Malia spins around the sidewalk, reading the street signs. They're on a street that's all concrete and brightly colored signs, 7-11’s and seedy looking bars and inexplicably, a school bus parked down the street in front of a club advertising _Girls! Girls! Girls!_ in flashing pink neon.

“Malia,” Lydia says softly, and shuffles close to her. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Malia reaches out with her left hand and threads their fingers together. “Come on,” she says tightly. “Just walk. Act like you belong. If someone looks at you wrong, ignore it. Don't worry, I won't let anyone fuck with you.”

She pulls on Lydia's arm and she stumbles next to Malia as the other girl starts to walk. “What are you talking about?”

“I spent two weeks in a group home once between foster homes,” Malia says flatly. “I can handle a sketchy neighborhood, trust me.”

True to her word no one hassles them as they pass convenience stores and sex shops and entrances to casinos, girls huddled in groups on the street wearing neon colored bras and stilettos that look like weapons. They cross an intersection and Malia abruptly pulls Lydia across the street, gripping her hand so hard it almost hurts, but when Lydia turns her head there's a group of guys across the street who they would've walked right into, covered in tattoos and chains, watching them both with hungry eyes, and she shivers as she looks away.

Malia takes them to a sandy brick apartment complex a few buildings down from a Shell station and stops in front of the entrance to the lobby. “I think this is it,” Malia says, squinting up at the building.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Lydia asks.

Malia slowly shakes her head. “I can do it.”

Lydia exhales nervously. “Okay. How about I wait at the gas station and you can meet me there when you're done? You just want to meet her right? You're not going inside, you shouldn't go inside when you don't even know her, you know that, right?”

“I know not to go inside a stranger’s house.” Malia rolls her eyes. “Even if she is my mother. I just need to see her.”

“Okay.”

“Go, I'll be fine.”

“Malia” -

“Seriously, just go, I really just want to do this and get it over with before I throw up.”

“Don't throw up.”

Malia bounces up and down. “I'm really nervous.”

“Of course you're nervous. Just breathe, okay?”

Malia suddenly looks worried. “Do I look okay?”

“Hey.” Lydia reaches out and smooths down Malia's hair. “You look beautiful.”

Malia flushes. “Okay. Thanks. Now go, seriously, you're gonna make me emotional.”

“Okay.” Lydia hesitates. “Just - be careful.”

“I will,” Malia promises.

Lydia gives her a quick hug and forces herself to turn around, walks down to the Shell station while resisting the urge to go right back and grab Malia before she can do this. She goes inside and hovers by the window, wondering if she made the right choice, if she should have refused to let Malia do this alone, if coming here was some kind of fatal mistake she could've prevented if she'd really tried.

She leans her head against the glass as anxiety rolls through her; she reaches into her back pocket for her phone and calls Stiles.

“Hey Lydia.” It's Scott. “Stiles is driving. Everything okay?”

“I'm at a Shell station. It's on Virginia Street, I think we're pretty close to the highway. We walked from the bus station.”

“You _walked?_ ”

“Don't even ask,” she mutters. “Malia's meeting me here when she's done talking to her - can you pick us up here?”

“Sure. Are you okay?”

“I let her go alone,” Lydia confesses. “To meet her birth mom.”

“Did she want you to go with her?”

“No.”

Scott sighs into the phone. “Sounds like you did everything you could have while trying to respect what she wanted.”

“What if what she wants gets her hurt?”

“Sometimes we can't protect the people we care about from getting hurt no matter how hard we try,” Scott says softly. “You know that.”

Lydia blinks, her eyes burning. “Yeah.”

“Hey, we're getting off the highway, I think we're pretty close. Wow, I've never seen so many casinos in one place before.”

“Welcome to Nevada,” she says dryly.

“GPS says we’ll be there in a few minutes. We’ll look for you?”

“Okay.” She hangs up and goes back outside, leans up against the glass window of the station and looks down the block for Malia, but she can't see her.

Lydia paces back and forth, staring out at the oil pumps, shafts of light from overhead falling across them. The street she's on is cluttered with flashing wicked signs for every vice imaginable, and further on, the twinkling relentless lights of the casinos and beyond them, the mountains.

A car horn honks and when she whips around, her hair whirling over her shoulders, the Jeep is turning into the Shell station, headlights crossing over her face as Stiles pulls into the parking spot nearest to her. He gets out of the car, wearing worn jeans and a navy blue crew neck with a bright cerulean pocket on the chest, and Lydia runs across the pavement to him, throwing herself into the waiting outstretched circle of his arms.

“Hey,” he says softly, smoothing the loose hair back from her face. “You okay?”

She nods, dropping her cheek down to his shoulder for a moment so she can breathe him in, relaxing for the first time since she walked out of school with Malia. Down the street the outline of a girl in a bright colored top materializes, slowly getting sharper as she moves in their direction.

“Oh thank god,” Lydia exhales. “There she is.”

Stiles lets her go and Lydia walks around Scott, who pats her shoulder as he climbs out of the Jeep. Lydia jogs down the sidewalk towards Malia, who's walking with her head down, kicking a rock with the toe of her sneaker as she trudges towards Lydia.

“Hey!” Lydia rushes up to her. “Are you okay? You weren't gone very long, what happened?”

Malia refuses to look at her, her hair hanging over her face. “Nothing, she wasn't there.”

“Oh. Did you want to wait until she comes back or,” -

“She’s not coming back.” Malia sounds bitter and resigned. 

“Malia.” Lydia grabs her good hand. “Tell me what happened.”

When Malia looks up her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are glassy. “The woman who answered the door told me she doesn't live there anymore. She's not there.”

“So where is she?”

“ _Corinne no está aquí_.” Malia's accent is brutally sarcastic. “I think I met my grandmother.”

“Malia, what's going on? Did she tell you where your mother is?”

Malia laughs bitterly. “Ely State Prison doing twenty to life. Turns out both of my parents are monsters. I guess I shouldn't really be surprised.”

Lydia freezes, her empty stomach cramping. “What?”

Malia looks out over the mountains. “My birth mom - and it's definitely her because that woman looked at me and knew exactly who I was, I could see it all over her face - she killed someone. That's all she told me before she called me _puta_ and slammed the door in my face.”

“Oh my god.”

“Whatever.” Malia's voice is thin and scratchy. “You were right, I shouldn't have come. I thought having answers would make me feel better but - hey, isn't that Stiles’ car? That guy who picked you up after Cora's party?”

“Yeah, he and Scott came to pick us up.”

Malia crinkles her nose. “You called him?”

“Do you really want to take the bus home?”

“No,” Malia sighs. “Fuck that.”

They walk back to Scott and Stiles, who are leaning against the passenger side of the Jeep. “Hey,” Scott calls out, reaching out to hug Malia, who stiffens and ducks out of it. “Everyone okay?”

“I'm hungry,” Malia deflects, looking out past the intersection where the golden arches of a McDonald's glow from down the block. “We missed dinner.”

“It's past ten!” Scott shoots Lydia a disappointed look.

“We were a little distracted,” she says defensively.

“Alright, come on then.” Stiles twirls his keys between his fingers before walking around the front of the Jeep.

Lydia gets into the passenger seat and Scott and Malia get in the back. Stiles drives them through the intersection and down to the McDonald’s, cars on the freeway rushing past them on the other side of the parking lot. They all go in together, Lydia's eyes water at the sudden bright lights as they get into a line behind a few obviously drunk guys. She looks up in the menu, swallowing back a wave of nausea. She knows she needs to eat something but it makes her feel sick, thinking of filling her body up with deep fried oil and fat. She wraps her arms around herself and slots her fingers into the grooves of her ribs as Malia orders a burger and a large fry that she sullenly promises to share with Scott.

“Lydia.” Stiles slings an arm around her waist. “You're up.”

She sighs and steps up to the cash register, leaning into Stiles. She orders a chicken sandwich with resignation and they follow Scott and Malia over to a booth and sit down opposite them. Lydia eats mechanically, resisting the urge to tear the bread apart with her fingers. She can't even look at Malia as she eats, ketchup smeared messily across her bottom lip. Under the table Stiles spreads his hand over Lydia's thigh, long fingers stroking soft silent reassurances against her skin.

When both girls are finished they trash their garbage and go back outside to the parking lot and climb into the Jeep. Stiles turns around in the parking lot and follows the signs to get on I-80 W, fiddling with the radio with his free hand. Malia's silent in the backseat, her face pressed against the window. Lydia compulsively rubs her hands against her bare thighs, thinking of grease and salt sinking through her skin, imagines little fat cells expanding and expanding. She trips her left hand across the console so she can hook her pinkie around Stiles’, taking a few deep breaths until the anxiety recedes.

“How can there possibly be this much traffic after ten?” Stiles mutters to himself, switching lanes as he starts to slow down, the highway a sea of flashing brake lights stretched out ahead of them, a long winding snake of cars slowly crawling towards California.

A silver Tesla cuts in front of them without signaling and Stiles has to slam on the brakes so he doesn't hit it, pounding an open fist against the wheel as they all jerk forward from the momentum. “Motherfucking cocksucker!” he shouts, and honks against for emphasis.

There's a choking noise from the backseat and when Lydia turns around Malia's braced against her door, her face grey as headlights from passing cars flash by. “Malia, you okay?”

“I want to get out,” Malia says shakily. 

“Hey, it's okay, we're fine” -

“No, no, let me out, I'm getting out!” Malia slams her body against the door and Lydia shrieks as Scott lunges across the backseat to pull her towards him.

“Jesus fuck,” Stiles mutters as Malia begins to cry, slapping Scott’s arms as he tries to restrain her. Stiles looks over his shoulder and shifts into the far left lane, pulls up to the shoulder next to the ditch that separates the middle of the highway and throws the car into park.

Malia clambers over Scott and half-falls out to the Jeep. She stumbles up to the ditch and hunches over, hands on her thighs, her shoulders shaking. From the backseat Scott lets out a heavy sigh. “I got it, hang on,” he says, and follows Malia out of the car.

Lydia watches him through Stiles’ window as he slowly approaches Malia. He puts a hand on her back and she jerks away, Lydia can hear her crying from the open car door, thick choking sobs as she fights Scott off until she gives up and collapses against him, fisting the fabric of his green tee shirt as he puts his arms around her.

Stiles sighs and tips his head back against his seat. “Is she going to be okay?”

“She's not good with cars.”

“What happened to her?”

“She was in a car accident when she was eight,” Lydia explains. “Her little sister and her mom died.”

His forehead wrinkles up in confusion. “But I thought she was here for her mom?”

“Oh no, yeah, she was looking for her birth mom. The accident was with her adopted family.”

“Wow, and I thought my family was screwed up,” he mutters darkly.

Lydia huffs out a bitter laugh. “She's Derek and Cora’s cousin actually, which technically makes her a Hale. They're practically cursed.”

“Did she say what happened back there? Did she meet her mom?”

Lydia shakes her head. “She's in prison apparently.”

“Fuck.” Stiles whistles, long and low. “That sucks.”

“Yeah.” Lydia slips her Chloe flats off so she can curl her legs up on the seat. “I guess she just needed to know where her birth mom was, though. Even if it wasn't the answer she wanted.”

“Yeah.” Stiles twists to the side, hands resting lightly on the wheel. “I can't imagine that. Not knowing where I come from. It's bad enough I can't ask my mom things. I always get these dumb questions in my head like, what was she like as a kid? Did she hate vegetables? Did she get nightmares like I did? What was the first movie she ever saw in a theater? What did she think of my dad when she first met him? How do you say fuck in Polish?”

“That's not dumb,” Lydia says softly. “She was your mom.”

The Jeep creaks as Scott and Malia come back and climb in. “Sorry,” Malia mutters, dropping her head as she crawls across the backseat.

“No worries,” Stiles says lightly, politely ignoring the fact that Malia's face is streaked with tears and she won't let go of Scott's hand. “Everyone ready to go home?”

Scott slams the door behind him and buckles his seatbelt before getting Malia settled in the middle seat next to him. “Yeah, lets go.”

Stiles puts on his turn signal and carefully merges back into the left lane. He turns the radio up and Lydia squeezes his hand gratefully as he speeds up to catch up with the flow of traffic. It gets lighter as they cross the border into California and they cruise along the highway in exhausted silence, nodding along to the radio as the clock ticks closer and closer to midnight. 

When they finally get off the highway, circling back through Sacramento to drive towards Beacon Hills, Lydia turns around in the backseat to look at Malia. “Are you staying at the loft tonight?”

Malia nods and rubs her eyes, leaning forward to give Stiles directions. When they hit Beacon Hills he drives through downtown and parks right in front of the entrance to the loft, the windows lit up above them. Malia stretches in the backseat before leaning forward to wrap her arms around Lydia's seat. “Thanks for coming with me.”

There's a loud bang and when Lydia looks out her window Derek is standing outside the car on the blacktop, barefoot, wearing jeans and a tight grey vee neck, looking furious. 

“Oh shit,” Malia mutters. “Well, I'm dead.”

“I'll get out with you,” Lydia offers, and gives Stiles a reassuring smile before sliding out of the passenger seat.

“Where the hell were you!” Derek explodes as soon as they're both out of the car. “Is that Scott? Did you seriously go for a joyride with some high school boys for _half the night_ and not even think of letting me know you were okay? Either of you?”

“We weren't going for a stupid ride!” Malia spits angrily.

“Then where the hell were you?”

“Reno!” Malia explodes.

The color drains out of Derek's face. “What?”

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Malia sounds close to tears again. “Or was this going to be just another secret?”

“Of course I was going to tell you.” Derek's voice is brittle. “When you turned eighteen. And - it's not that it's a _secret_ , I was just worried that if she knew you were here she'd try and make contact with you, maybe convince you to do something like move to be closer to her and you've already been dragged around so much and. I didn't want you to have to go through that again. You have a home here. We're your family. I didn't want her to make you think that we don't want you, or that you'd be better off with a _convict_ than people who love you. I'm sorry, if I'd known you wanted to look for her I would've told you.”

Malia stares up at him, wide eyed. “You're such an idiot,” she declares, and then she goes up on her tiptoes and throws her arms around Derek's neck.

He looks bewildered for a moment before he puts his arms around her and gently pats her back. “Are you okay?”

Malia shrugs against him. “More or less.”

He sighs and glances over where Lydia's standing on the pavement next to them. “You should go on home, are you - you're okay with them?” He gives Stiles a suspicious look.

She can't resist a smile at that. “They dropped everything to pick us up, I'll be fine.”

“Okay. I'll see you tomorrow then for photos.”

“Okay. Night Malia.”

Malia twists around, looking exhausted. “Night. Tell Scott and Stiles thanks for me.”

“Okay.” Lydia squeezes Malia's left hand before waving goodbye and getting back inside the Jeep.

“Good?” Stiles asks, and when she nods he turns the Jeep around and gets back on the street.

He drops Scott off first and drives to Lydia's house, pulls into her driveway and shifts the car into park. Lydia unbuckles her seatbelt before sliding closer to him, shifting so she can lean against his chest. “Thank you for getting us. Seriously, thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Stiles winds a strand of her hair around his finger. “Maybe next time let me know before you go on an out of state mission?”

“You got it,” she agrees.

He glances over at her house, where the porch light is glowing. “You should probably go in.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “Hey, so in the morning Allison and I have to go up to the company theatre to take some promotional photos for the showcase and then I've got to practice but my mom will be gone tomorrow night, she has to go to some benefit thing for the company. Do you want to come over?”

“Really?” Stiles grins wickedly. “Hell yeah.”

“Good,” she says, pleased, and leans forward to kiss him. She means it to be soft, a kiss of gratitude for helping her, but he releases her hair to wrap his hand around the back of her neck and the kiss deepens into something hungrier.

She catches his bottom lip between her teeth and feels it when he shivers, his tongue flicking against hers. She sucks on his lip before pulling away, feeling a wave of pride at how undone he looks, just from kissing her. “See you tomorrow then?”

“Yeah,” he says enthusiastically. “Let me know when you're done practicing?”

“Okay.” She kisses him again, tenderly, all soft lips brushing together, overwhelmed by him, his kindness, his consistent willingness to help her. “Goodnight.”

He smiles softly and brushes his hand against her cheek. “Night Lydia.”

She swings down from the Jeep and shuts the door, waving through the window before crossing in front of the car. Lydia walks up the driveway swinging her hips a little, just for him, knowing he's watching her, her heart racing at the promise of having him all to herself tomorrow night, and goes inside.


	27. the girl who fought a wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an outfit set update!! I got impatient waiting for Chicvore (Polyvore's rumored replacement) to go live so I did a little exploring and went with Fashmates. The website and app can be finicky so don't stress if it won't load right away but in general it's the closest thing to Polyvore I could find - I'm hoping they fix all the glitches/stop needing to do site maintenance multiple times a day because it has a lot of potential. Chapters 22-27 have been updated with BRAND NEW outfit sets and I was able to upload my old Polyvore sets so I will be fixing the links to those when I have some free time.
> 
> The Stydia content in this chapter was brought to you in collaboration with Rachel (writergirl8), who shared her brilliant idea for a scene with me months ago and waited patiently for me to write it. Trust me when I say you are going to want to send her all the gift baskets.

[Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528649145432) picks [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528643593386) up a little before noon on Saturday in a big black shiny SUV. “Nice,” Lydia comments, sliding into the passenger seat and dropping her dance bag on the floor by her feet.

Allison sighs and strokes the steering wheel lovingly. “I never want to give it back. I begged Dad to get me a car for after I graduate, it would make going back and forth from school so much easier.”

Lydia's stomach clenches at the thought of Allison living away from her, in a different city. “Better than taking the bus.”

“I know, right?” Allison grins as she reverses out of the driveway. “And then I could come visit you whenever I wanted!”

“You better visit me whether you have a car or not,” Lydia threatens.

“You know I will,” Allison says solemnly. 

“Not that I know where I'll be,” Lydia adds. It's starting to feel surreal, being this close to the showcase, everything she's been working for a these years and it's finally here.

“Lydia, Derek practically told you you were getting into the company, I don't think you have anything to worry about.”

“He said if I wanted it I had to fight for it,” Lydia corrects.

“Okay, but why would he tell you that if you didn't have a good chance of getting in?”

“I don't know,” Lydia concedes.

Allison checks her mirror before switching lanes. “Seriously though, even if there are only two spots open Cora gets one, okay. I don't care if Malia is their cousin, she's a mess, there's no way Derek would take her over you. You have seniority over Kira and she wants to go back to New York anyway, and Derek wouldn't hire me in a million years even if I wanted him to.”

“So that leaves Erica.”

“Those are pretty good odds.”

“Derek likes Erica,” Lydia says, thinking about that day back in March when Derek taught for Marin, his hands on Erica's waist as they did battements across the floor.

“Sure, maybe, but he doesn't really know her. He knows you, he knows how hard you work. It just seems like, I don't know, you guys are clicking. You said your rehearsals were really good this week.”

“I guess I don't want to get my hopes up. After everything…”

“Hey.” Allison reaches over and squeezes Lydia's thigh. “You deserve this. You've worked your ass off for this. It's okay to want it.”

“Sometimes I want it so much it scares me,” she admits.

“Sounds like falling in love,” Allison says softly.

Lydia's so tired of falling. She wonders if she'll ever shake this feeling, that she can't stop moving, can't let her guard down, ever, that she has to claw and fight her way through each day just to survive, to get what she wants.

There's no traffic, they make it to the theatre in San Francisco in forty-five minutes and park in a garage around the corner. Allison reaches for Lydia's hand on the sidewalk, looking around as they walk down the street. “Do you know what you're wearing? It's not the same as your costume for the showcase, right?”

Lydia shakes her head. “I think Peter already had something picked out just for this. He had a _vision_.”

Allison visibly shudders. “I hope it involves you wearing something.”

“Derek's not going to put me up there naked, don't be ridiculous.”

“I'm just saying, Peter's visions aren't exactly PG, Laura was practically naked onstage in the second half of The Little Mermaid.”

“It'll be fine, Marin’s going to be here, right?”

“Yeah, she brought my costume. I think we're going to put some flowers around the stage for the pictures.” Allison smiles dreamily. “I can't believe I get to dance Romeo and Juliet. We're so lucky.”

Lydia stops on the sidewalk in front of the theatre, remembering when they came here a few months ago to see Coppélia, staring up at the posters imagining her face up there, her body blown up to six feet tall in print. “Yeah, we are.”

Inside the theatre [Marin](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528766301487) is standing on the edge of the stage, directing Isaac and another guy about their age as they move huge arrangements of pink and white roses around while Derek observes from a front row seat looking bored nearly to tears. He turns around in his seat when he hears the doors shut behind them as Allison and Lydia stand at the back of the theatre on the dark red plush carpet, eyes wide, their heads turning back and forth to take it all in, the strange hush of an empty theatre in the middle of the day.

“Marin.” Derek stands up and walks up to the stage, places one hand flat on it and vaults right up. “The girls are here.”

“I'm aware,” she says dryly, and claps her hands. “Thank you boys. Isaac, Derek has your costume. Ladies, follow me.”

Marin takes the stairs down, giving Derek a little smirk as she does, because Marin is too dignified to ever do something like jump on or off a stage, her hair rippling down her back as she swings her hips. She's dressed in the street version of what she wears in class, a black dress with a skirt so long it covers her shoes. Marin, elegant and smooth as silk, glides over to a few garments bags draped over the back of a chair, a huge black leather tote sitting on the floor.

“Girls, come.” Marin picks up the bags and the tote and strides down one of the aisles of the theatre to a side door.

Lydia and Allison scurry down the hallway after her, the ceilings low and sculpted in gold leaf, and follow Marin into the peach wallpapered ladies room. She hangs the bags up on a hook on the wall above a cream and gold brocade upholstered divan and unzips the first one, revealing a pink satin slip [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528661547176). “For our Juliet.”

Allison flushes and peels her tee shirt dress up over her head, kicks off her sneakers, takes the pink dress from Marin and steps into it. The dress skims over her body without revealing too much; Allison looks soft and young and romantic like this, just like the young doomed lover she plays onstage. Marin reaches over and smooths out the straps, fusses with Allison's curls. “We’ll do your hair onstage, I want to see how it photographs.”

Allison nods, glancing sideways at her reflection in the full length mirror hanging on the wall opposite the divan, twisting her body around to see how the fabric lays as she moves. Lydia watches Allison pose for a minute, hypnotized by Allison's long legs and slim arms and the smooth white expanse of her back. She looks like a real prima, with that body in that dress, her angelic face, those soft curls.

Marin unzips the next bag, takes out a nude pink leotard and passes it to Lydia, who holds it in her hands, a little unsettled. “This is it?”

“Of course not. There's a second piece, it goes over that,” Marin explains. “Come on, the photographer is waiting. You're our last two to go.”

Lydia unties her wedges and steps out of them, gets out of her playsuit, quickly folds it up and passes it into Allison's waiting hands, and pulls on the leotard. Marin tilts her head and nods in approval, reaches into the garment bag and takes out a bundle of deep red fabric.

“It's a bit literal,” she says, shaking the cloth out. “But you know men. They want what they want.” 

She holds it up and Lydia almost laughs in understanding - it's a [cape](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528662480318), of course it's a cape, lusciously red and rich, a woman's cape, not a silly little girl’s beribboned costume. She holds still as Marin pulls it over her head and smooths the fabric over her shoulder. Marin hums and reaches around to gather up Lydia's hair in one of her hands.

“A ponytail, I think,” she says, and offers Lydia a rare smile. “I want them all to see this beautiful face.”

Lydia holds still as Marin digs a hairbrush out of her tote bag as Allison waits in the middle of the room, careful not the lean against a wall so she doesn't risk getting anything on her dress or god forbid, snagging the material. Marin’s sure hands tie Lydia's hair up in a perfectly centered high ponytail and she goes back into her bag, rooting around until she digs out a black ribbon.

“Just a little something,” she murmurs, and ties it in a bow around Lydia's hair tie. “Ah, there we go. _Magnifique_.”

Lydia stares at herself in the mirror - she did her makeup before Allison picked her up, her eyes are lined in smoky liner, her skin is flawless, and her lips are painted a soft nude pink so as not to compete too much with her costume, because she knows Peter, she's his little red, of course he was going to have her dressed in something like this, make her wear the color of blood, of fire, seduction, danger.

_Look at you, my darling._

She looks beautiful, sultry and glamorous, like the kinds of girls she used to stare at when her mother took her to work at the company’s office. It's hard to reconcile the girl in the mirror with the girl who's been broken over and over again, the girl who broke glass with her fist, the girl who fought a wolf and won.

Back in the theatre Isaac is doing push-ups on the stage, the guy who was helping him arrange the flowers earlier must be their photographer because he's sitting upstage from Isaac cradling a Nikon DSLR camera lovingly in his hands. Aiden has arrived, he's sprawled out in a seat next to Derek in the front row wearing only a pair of thin beige cotton pants. Marin goes up onstage and gestures for Allison to follow, Lydia watches as Marin sets up Allison in front of the huge tower of floral arrangements and begins to pluck roses out at random. A pack of hairpins is pulled out of the tote bag and Marin slips a handful of them into her mouth, holding the pins between her teeth as she begins to twist and weave the flowers through Allison's hair.

“Lydia.” Derek gestures for her to come over to him. “Got your shoes?”

She holds up her dance bag and Derek nods. “Warm up your feet,” he instructs. “We're up next.”

Aiden springs out of his chair, grinning, and holds his hands palm up to her. “Do you need a barre?”

“What would I do without you.” She lays her hands lightly over his and starts to roll through her feet, coming up onto demi pointe and slowly rolling back down.

Up on stage they've started taking pictures, Allison is standing in front of the flowers with Isaac kneeling down next to her, wearing a billowy white shirt and black tights. Allison poses with one hand in his curls, a benevolent smile on her face as Isaac stares up at her, the skirt of her dress held lovingly in his hands. Marin stands behind the photographer, murmuring suggestions into his ear as the shutter clicks. She has Isaac get up and stand behind Allison as she balances in fifth position en pointe, his arms looping around her waist. Allison turns her head to the side and closes her eyes, still smiling, held in a lover’s embrace. She tilts her head up a little and when Marin instructs him to Isaac bends down, lips an inch away from Allison's, to mimic a kiss, chaste and sweet.

“Hot,” Aiden jokes as he watches them, holding Lydia's hand as they plié together in their bare feet in the middle of the aisle, the carpet lush and impossibly soft between her toes.

“You're terrible,” she admonishes softly, watching the photographer stare salaciously at Allison as he takes pictures.

Aiden smirks and leans in towards her. “We're hotter though.”

“Obviously.” They both break into laughter, slapping their hands over their mouths when Derek turns his head around from where he's sitting on the edge of the stage to shoot them a stern look.

When Isaac and Allison are done Lydia and Aiden go up onstage and switch places with them. Derek helps Marin clear the flowers offstage and arranges Aiden in front of the black drop curtain while Lydia puts on her pointe shoes. Derek has them both stand in profile, facing each other, and waves the photographer over.

“This is Matt,” Derek introduces. “Okay, so I'm thinking that pose in the second section, with your leg up Lydia, is that okay?”

She nods and goes up on relevé. “Now?”

Matt squints and glances down at his camera, messes around with a knob. “Yeah, go for it.”

Lydia wraps her bare leg around Aiden's waist and looks up at him. He gives her a dark smile, wolfish, and she widens her eyes a little and purses her lips, just a little sexy, a little seductive, holding still while the shutter clicks over and over again.

“Okay, can I get an arabesque please?” Derek requests. “Looking good, guys.”

Lydia opens her leg around to the side and brings it behind herself, raising her leg as high as she can get it, toes pointed up towards the ceiling, Aiden's hand supporting the small of her back. She holds still as Matt photographs them, the muscles in her legs trembling. Derek has them take a couple of shots of Aiden lifting her up a few inches off the floor next, one arm between her legs as his free hand wraps around the ankle of her raised leg still held in a high arabesque. 

“Can you do the walk?” Derek asks. “Just slow it down a little.”

Aiden sets Lydia down on the floor and shakes his arms out before reaching for her, lifting her up in the air by her waist before getting his arms around the backs of her thighs so her torso is pressed against his bare chest, her legs dangling above the stage, her face almost level with his.

“Breathe!” Derek commands, and they both inhale reflexively. “Step!”

Aiden takes a slow step forward, looking down at her face, expression soft and fond. Lydia smiles back, pointing her toes, her hands cupped around his neck. _Hey_ , he mouths, and takes another slow step, pausing for the click of the shutter.

 _Hey_ , she mouths back, keeping her focus on him, their synchronized breathing, the warmth of his skin under her hands, until she forgets to pose, forgets she's being watched, held in a perfect moment, living inside her dream, onstage and adored by all who surround her.

“I think we got it,” Derek announces, looking pleased.

Aiden swings Lydia down and nods to Matt before offering his hand to Lydia and helping her down from the stage. She takes her pointe shoes off and follows Allison and Marin back to the bathroom to change into their street clothes. Marin carefully hangs up their costumes and zips the garment bags up before officially dismissing them. They walk back out of the hallway and through the lobby, all gold plated fixtures and red carpet, and out into the afternoon sunshine.

“Wanna get food?” Allison asks. “It's almost three.”

Lydia’s only had breakfast so far today, Greek yogurt with a handful of strawberries and two cups of coffee, so she nods and follows Allison down the street to a small cafe. Allison tilts her head at it, eyebrows raised in question, and Lydia peeks through the window; it's empty right now, brightly lit with a shiny white counter running the length of one wall. Allison yanks open the glass door and Lydia follows her inside. There's a menu written in chalk across the entire south wall of the cafe; Lydia pauses next to Allison to skim it. She's annoyingly hungry and feels slightly guilty for waiting this long to eat since breakfast, so when they go to the counter to order she takes a deep breath and asks for a sandwich instead of a salad, a real sandwich, with cheese and avocado and grilled chicken along with vegetables. Allison instantly relaxes next to her and orders a honey bacon club before handing over a credit card that Lydia knows Chris pays for.

The cashier gives her a plastic order number and they walk over to the counter and hop onto sleek metal chairs to wait for their food.

“Hey, how're you doing with all this stuff?” Allison asks, waving a hand at the opposite wall where the chalk menu is. “We've kind of been focused on the showcase a lot I guess.”

“Okay,” Lydia says tentatively. “I don't think it's something that magically goes away after two weeks.”

“No, I know,” Allison says quickly. “But things are better?”

Lydia thinks about working with Derek in rehearsals, how she's finally starting to feel like she can do it, perform well, the way she wants to. She thinks about how good it felt when she got the lift worked out with Isaac, how lucky she is to have Aiden's steadiness, his devotion to being her partner. How proud Scott is of her for trying even when she fails, how much Allison fights for her, because she loves her, because that's the kind of friend Allison is.

And Stiles, his gentle eyes and his large hands and the way every cell in her body goes liquid soft when he touches her, how sweet it is, like honey flowing through her veins, heavy and warm and she can never get enough, never thought she'd let herself have something like this, someone she really trusts, as much as she's capable of anyway, someone who deserves it, who’s earned it, who's held every broken part of her body is his hands and done nothing but care for her.

She crosses her legs against a sudden hot wave of arousal. “Yeah,” she says, trying not to blush. “Things are getting better.”

*

By the time Allison drops Lydia off at her house it's past five, she sets her dance bag down on the floor in the foyer and sits on the bottom stair step to take off her wedges. “Hey Mom, I'm home!” she calls out, and a minute later her mother appears at the top of the stairs in a silver beaded cocktail dress.

“Hey baby.” Her mother descends the stairs carefully in her kitten-heeled sling backs. “How did the photos go?”

“Good.” Lydia offers her a smile and feels a wave of relief when her mother smiles back. “I'm going to go up and practice.”

“Okay, don't push yourself too hard.” 

“I won't,” Lydia promises.

Her mother leans in and air kisses Lydia's cheek so she doesn't smear her lipstick. “I should be back by midnight.”

“You better be, young lady,” Lydia teases.

As soon as her mother is out the door Lydia takes her phone out her Chloé bag and texts Stiles. She has to change, warm up, practice, shower and change again before he gets here so she asks him to come over in two hours. He responds with a mess of emojis, a dancer, a thumbs up, and a smiley face that make Lydia laugh a little despite herself. She unlocks the front door for him before she carries her things upstairs and goes into her room, changes into a colorblocked [bra](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528649634788) and a pair of leggings. She leaves her hair in its ponytail and grabs her shoes and water bottle, and goes down the hall to her practice studio.

She hooks her phone up to the speakers and starts her Tchaikovsky playlist, goes over to the barre and begins pliés. She does a short version of Marin’s barre class, tendus, dégagés, développés, battlements, and a stretching sequence, before putting on her pointe shoes and changing the music to the showcase song.

She starts stage left and walks through her first solo, marks the first pas de deux with Aiden, her second solo, then the second pas de deux. She starts over from the beginning to do it full out, catching glimpses of herself in the mirror as she moves. She goes through the piece over and over again, until she's exhausted, working out all the little places where she can be bigger, stretch more, jump higher, push herself just beyond what she thinks she's capable of.

She takes a quick water break and starts over from the beginning, forcing her lungs to stay open, taking gulps of air after each jump sequence, her hamstrings beginning to burn. In the mirror her cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, her chest covered in a sheen of sweat. She's halfway through her second solo when the music suddenly cuts out, and her phone’s ringtone begins to chime.

She drops down from relevé and hurries over to her phone, surprised when she sees Stiles’ face stretched across the screen; she unhooks it from the speakers and swipes to answer. “Hey, everything okay?”

“Hey, yeah, I'm just, uh, I'm standing on your front porch, you are home, right?”

“What time is it?” she asks, baffled.

“Seven-thirty.”

“Oh my god, come on in, the door’s open.” She rushes out of the practice studio and walks down the hall to the top of the stairs, Stiles is waiting at the bottom in jeans and a grey tee shirt under a red hoodie. “Hey,” she calls out. “Sorry, I lost track of time practicing, come on up.”

He takes the stairs two at a time, grinning when he gets to the top. “So this is what you look like when you're practicing.”

“Yeah.” She glances away for a second, feeling a little embarrassed, her ponytail is starting to fall out and she's covered in a light layer of sweat, but from the way Stiles is smiling he doesn't seem to mind.

“Are you all done?” he asks. “Sorry, you said two hours - wait, have you been practicing this whole time?”

“I had to warm up first,” she explains. “But I can be done.”

“You were practicing your piece for the showcase, right?”

“Mhmm.”

He gives her a hopeful look. “Can I see it?”

She blinks at him. “Right now?”

He shrugs hesitantly. “Only if you want to. Were you done practicing?”

“Almost. I could do it one more time if you want to see it. That's a good idea actually, it helps to practice in front of an audience. Come on.”

She takes him into her practice studio and Stiles glances around, his eyes wide. “Wow, is this all for you?”

“Yeah, my mom had it done when we moved here.” Lydia sets him up in front of the mirrored wall and plugs her phone back into the speakers. “Ready?”

Stiles nods and sits down, crossing his legs, his eyes bouncing off her cleavage, her bare stomach, the line of her legs. She swallows, her awareness of her own body suddenly heightened, he can see every little flaw and imperfection like this and she has to drag her eyes away from the mirror before she can get self-conscious. She isn't like this onstage, in front of an audience, but she isn't dancing for just anyone, she's dancing for Stiles.

She wants him to love her. She wants him to be impressed, to understand why she works so hard, cares so much, puts herself through emotional hell and physical torture for this thing she loves so much.

She wants him to see her.

She starts the music and hurries over to stage left as the opening bars of the music start. She takes a deep breath and begins to move, skimming across the floor in her pointe shoes, goes through the mimicry of pretending to pick a bouquet of flowers, plays leapfrog over pretend logs, twirls between imaginary trees. She turns around to face the wall when Aiden's supposed to come in and runs in a big circle around the room, jumping up for an assemblé when he's supposed to catch her.

She marks through the pas de deux, glancing over at Stiles, who's watching her with his mouth dropped open, eyes wide, like he's in awe. “I dance this part with Aiden,” she explains, waiting for the musical cue to begin the walk.

She slowly drifts over to stage left, walking backwards as she counts in her head, waiting for her second solo to begin. When the music starts to builds she breaks into the jump combination, throwing all of herself into every leap as she gasps for air, her lungs beginning to tap out. She soars, she flies, she flings her body around, catching herself in the mirror, the beautiful lines she can make with her body. She makes her way upstage and goes into the fouettés, watching herself in the mirror as she whips around and around, every muscle aching, until she finally comes down from her last turn.

She doesn't bother going through the second pas de deux again, she can barely breathe, her chest tight, lightheaded, the walls spinning as she finally stands still. Lydia takes a second to roll her head down, hands resting on her thighs until she catches her breath. She walks over to Stiles and stops the music before dropping to the floor next to him.

He runs one hand down his face, his eyes are round with amazement and he looks stunned, like she's shocked him somehow, showed him something he didn't even know existed before. He's looking at her like she's a waterfall, a sunset, a shining constellation. 

Like a star.

_Did you know we're made of stardust?_

“Lydia.” Stiles gives her this slow soft smile that makes her chest ache. “That was incredible.”

She looks down at her pointe shoes, suddenly shy. “Really?”

“Yes, really! You're - you're freaking amazing, that was crazy! Oh my god, Lydia. Seriously. Insane. I know I don't know shit about ballet but that looked superhuman.”

“Thanks,” she murmurs, flustered at his enthusiasm, and stacks her left foot on top of her right quad to take her pointe shoe off.

Her fingers slip against the satin ribbon and she makes a little noise of frustration when she can't seem to grasp the bow. “Hey.” Stiles reaches over and closes his fingers around hers. “Are you okay? You're shaking.”

She looks up at him and gets caught in honey colored eyes. “I'm fine,” she whispers, suddenly frozen, her concentration narrowed down the fixed points of his fingertips against her skin.

“Are you pushing yourself too hard?” he asks, his voice rough with concern. “You were practicing for a long time.”

“I'm fine, really, I'm just a little tired.” She tries to get the ribbon untied again but her trembling fingers won't obey.

Stiles picks up her hands and sets them down in her lap before reaching for the knotted satin ribbons. “Let me?”

She stares down at his big hands around her ankle, long elegant fingers ready to start picking apart the knot. “Okay,” she agrees, her breath caught in her chest.

She watches as Stiles unties the knot with deft fingers and unwinds the ribbons around and around her ankle. He carefully slides her pointe shoe off and sets it down next to her bag, Lydia pulls her foot in towards her chest to take off her toe pad while Stiles gets to work on her other pointe shoe, fingers expertly plucking at the ribbons as he unties them and takes the shoe off for her. Lydia gets her other toe pad off and quickly examines her toes, feeling a rush of relief that all her ugly blisters are taped. She wraps the ribbons around her pointe shoes so they don't get tangled and puts them in her bag along with her toe pads.

“Hey.” Stiles reaches out and takes her hand. “You aren't too tired to hang out, are you?”

She stares down at her hand in his, thinking about what it feels like: his fingers on her face, her neck, her hips, her thighs. What it feels like to let him take her body apart with a measured gentleness she's never experienced before, how her body is always drawn to his like a magnet.

Like she needs something she doesn't even really understand, something only he can give her.

“Of course not,” she says crisply, and leads him down the hallway to her room. “I'm just going to jump in a shower first,” she tells him.

Lydia sets him up on her bed with her laptop and Netflix account, instructs him to find a movie, and goes to the bathroom to take a shower. She locks the door behind herself and turns on the fan, strips out of her clothes and stands in front of the mirror. She tilts her head critically, examining her body: the lines of her collarbone, the shadow of her ribs, all the segments of her stomach muscles, her hip bones. She runs her fingers over her body and down the insides of her thighs, thinking about Stiles’ hands there, making her muscles melt under his touch, turning her into nothing more than surging hormones and a deep aching desire to feel him all over her, inside of her, until she can't feel anything but him.

She takes out her ponytail, steps into the shower, turns the water on hot and ducks under the spray. She washes with lavender vanilla body wash, shaves carefully and thoroughly, and shampoos her hair. When she gets out she towels off and quickly blow dries her hair, whips a brush through it and ties it back in a messy braid. She realizes too late that she didn't bring a change of clothes with her so she reaches for her lightweight floral print [robe](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528650140696) and slides it on, the fabric cool against her skin. She wraps it around herself and ties the belt, messes around with it in the mirror until she can see a subtle swell of cleavage. She stares at her body in the mirror and then remembers with a shivery jolt that Stiles is waiting for her, and she rushes out of the bathroom.

When she gets back to her bedroom Stiles is stretched out on her bed with her laptop balanced on his thighs, his shoes on the floor, his red hoodie draped over her vanity chair. “Hey,” he says, looking her up and down. “I found a movie.”

“Okay.” She considers getting clothes to change into but then she sees the way he can't take his eyes off of her and thinks, _fuck it_ , and crosses over to her bed.

She climbs carefully up onto it so she doesn't completely expose herself and slides across her lavender comforter to lay back next to him, nonchalantly leaning against a pillow. “Whenever you're ready,” she says flippantly, like she doesn't have a care in the world, like every nerve in her body isn't buzzing with heat from her proximity to him.

“Yeah, I'm ready,” he says, sounding a little hoarse. He reaches behind himself and picks up a cream velvet throw pillow and places it on the foot of the bed and sets her laptop on it, and hits play.

She doesn't even notice what movie he's chosen, the only thing she can focus on right now is him, her whole left side warm just from the suggestion of his body against hers. He's stretched out next to her on his back, long legs crossed at the ankle, his arms loosely folded over his stomach. Lydia presses her thighs together and pretends to watch the movie. She's hyper aware of everything: the sound of him breathing, the distance of his hip from hers, the pulse between her legs. 

She breathes shallowly, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. She feels like she's waiting for something, some secret signal, some sign that he's as wound up as she is, some recognition that she would never actually invite him over _just_ to watch a movie when they could be doing something so much more pleasurable. She shifts next to him, her cheeks hot, frustrated with herself, that it's not simple with him, he isn't just a beautiful body for her to use or a popular guy that will make her own social stock skyrocket by her association with him.

He's _Stiles_. He's her friend, he's saved her over and over again, in so many ways, he knows her in a way no boy ever has, not even Aiden or Jackson - he's seen the parts of her that are afraid, that feel shame, that get lost in the dark alone with a monster, and every single time he's put his arms around her and led her right back into the light.

He knows she's not just a pretty girl, or simply a dancer, an airhead with fabulous hair, a sharp tongued frigid bitch, all of the stereotypes people try to put on her. He knows what she dreams about, what she's afraid of, he knows every little thing she's tried to hide and he's never judged her or made her feel less than.

He makes her feel real.

She exhales and lightly bumps her left knee against his. Stiles doesn't look at her and she holds her breath, and after a moment he picks up his right hand and spreads it over her left thigh. She lets out a sigh of relief and her legs fall apart a little as she relishes the weight of his hand on her bare skin, how small she feels under him, consumed by just a touch. She leans into him a little and his fingers begin to stroke the inside of her thigh. Her breathing goes shallow again, she has to force herself to stay still, knowing in her gut she’ll be rewarded for it, aware that he's testing her right now, feeling out her limits, as if she has any with him anymore.

She'd let him do anything to her, she thinks.

His hand slides a little higher up her thigh and a soft noise slips out of her mouth. He glances sideways at her and Lydia stares at him, caught in eyes that glow gold from the soft light of her bedside lamp. She swallows and lets her legs fall open a little more, and arches her hips up uselessly when he cups her thigh a little more firmly. She lets out a harsh breath when his thumb stretches up to stroke the crease of her hip, little shockwaves of pleasure rolling through her. She slides her left arm under his right and curls her fingers under the hem of his shirt, brushing her hand over his stomach, and feels him twitch against her.

She gives up on the pretense of watching the movie and lets her eyes flutter shut, sighing as his fingers get dangerously close to her core. Next to her Stiles groans and suddenly flips over onto his side. “Lydia.”

“Hmm.” Fingers rub up and down, right in the hollow of the inside of her thigh, and she swallows down a whimper.

“You're killing me in this thing,” he grits out, and shifts a little more on his right side so he's hovering over her, his free hand gesturing at her robe.

She gives him a delighted smile, satisfied with his response. “What are you going to do about it then?”

He drops his head to her chest and she lets out a surprised gasp when his mouth presses against her bare skin, right in between her breasts, his left hand coming to the belt of her robe. “Can I untie this?”

She stares down at the top of his head, breathless, and nods. He unties it with one hand and the fabric falls open at the waist. Stiles kisses down her torso, his left hand sliding up to stroke over her right breast as his other hand cups between her legs. She arches up at his touch, the air rushing out of her lungs as her body shudders at the sudden increase in contact. Stiles hums against her, his mouth mapping out her ribcage, sucking a mark onto her skin. The muscles in her legs jump and she shivers as his tongue swirls around her navel, making her stomach contract as the hand between her legs begins to rub.

She feels overcome by warring instincts; she wants to roll her hips against him shamelessly, pull his hair, demand him to stop teasing her and make her come already, and at the same time she feels terrifyingly vulnerable, too exposed, willingly laying herself bare for him and desperately hoping he won't break her.

His mouth moves lower, until he's planting kisses over her pubic bone and Lydia goes still, suddenly realizing what his intentions are. She reaches down and slides a hand into his hair. “Stiles?”

He tilts his head up to look at her. “Have you done this before?”

She nods, her eyes widening, her stomach clenching at the idea of that tongue she's seen wrap around licorice sticks and pens and once, in the middle of a makeout session, her finger, licking her apart.

“Do you like it?” he asks, his voice thick and sweet like dripping honey.

Something in her whole body goes soft at the question and she sinks back against the pillows, nodding her head, her mouth going dry.

He grins. “Cool.” 

He stretches out on his belly between her legs and Lydia lets go, lets her robe fall completely open as she lays there, completely exposed to him, wondering what he thinks of her body, her flat stomach and sharp ribs, her collarbone that's still a little too prominent. But then Stiles reaches up and pushes her thighs apart and she can't think at all anymore, struck dumb at the visual of his head between her legs.

He turns his head to the side and sucks on the inside of her right thigh and Lydia gasps, arching back and pushing her hips up into nothing, his hands sliding over her hip bones to keep her pinned to the mattress. He licks his way over to the crease of her hip and she shivers, tensing in anticipation. He seems determined to tease her, ghosting his mouth over her center to give the other thigh the same treatment until her skin is wet and tingling. She pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth and reaches up above her head to grip a pillow, digging her heels into the mattress.

Finally his mouth closes over her and a jagged sound tears out of her throat at the relief of warm wet pressure. His tongue darts out as he uses one hand to spread her open for him, little kitten licks and flicks that make her squirm. He doesn't follow a pattern and it makes her spine stiffen, never sure of where he's going next, switching between licking his tongue flat and firm against her and light, barely there brushes that make every nerve in her body light up. She pushes her hips into his mouth every time his tongue strays too far, her skin hot with a desperation she feels so intensely it almost hurts.

“Stiles,” she pleads softly, and reaches down with her left hand to slide her fingers into his hair. “Please.”

He makes a soft shushing sound against her and then suddenly his tongue is working over that little bud of nerves in a sharp deliberate motion and Lydia lets out a surprise cry, tightening her fingers in his hair. He doesn't stop, falling into a steady rhythm, his hands spreading over her thighs. She pants for breath, trying to relax into it, the tingling rush of heat that starts at the soles of her feet and slowly spreads up her body until all she can feel is the pressure building under his tongue, tension in her body begging for release.

Heat spirals up her spine and she can't do anything but roll her hips and gasp for air, faster and faster as it builds up inside her body. She's helpless, her muscles contracting under the tip of his tongue. Lydia cries out, her heartbeat rushing in her ears, and he scrapes his teeth lightly against her before flicking his tongue relentlessly, over and over and over until her entire back arches as she finally comes with a loud wail. He works her down with his mouth until she has to push his head away because she can barely breathe, dizzy, her body nothing but a puddle of liquid heat, a shivery ache in her abdomen like she needs to come again.

“C’mere,” she gasps breathlessly, and Stiles climbs up her body, his lips dragging across her throat.

He kisses her hard on the mouth for the first time tonight, his hips pushing into her. He's panting frantically against her lips, his cheeks flushed, and she can feel him where he's hard in his jeans. Lydia reaches down for the button on his fly and he groans loudly, reaching down to help her with the zipper and get the denim pushed down his hips along with his boxers.

“Can I - can I just,” he rambles nonsensically, his pupils blown, balanced on his left forearm over her, his right hand fisting himself. “Please Lydia, I'm so close, please” -

“Yeah, yeah, c’mon,” she breathes, like a dare.

She arches her back and pushes her chest up into him, bringing her hands around his hips and down his back to his ass so she can feel the flex of his glutes. Stiles drops his forehead to her shoulder as he works himself, her room quiet except for the sound of his fist moving and his harsh breath against her skin. Lydia feels it when he starts to come, a shudder that begins deep in his spine as he lifts his head and lets it fall back. His face contracts as he lets out a low cry and spills all over her stomach before dropping his head back down to her chest.

“Oh my god,” he moans. “I'm sorry, I'm such an asshole.” One long arm gropes for a tissue on her nightstand so he can clean her up.

“It's okay,” she murmurs, feeling a little fuzzy, stunned at the sight of him like this, head bowed over her stomach, the veins in his forearms bulging. “I wanted you to.”

Stiles looks up at her from where he's draped over her body, wiping her skin clean. “But you just showered.”

“I don't care.”

He balls up the tissue and tosses it in the small trash can near her nightstand before stretching out over her again. “Yeah?”

His voice is low and it makes the ache in her pelvis sharpen. Lydia blinks, once, slow and deliberate, and lets her legs fall open. “Yeah.”

“Lydia.” He reaches down with his right hand and cups his hand between her legs.

“Yeah.” She pushes up into him with a little breathy cry.

He strokes his fingers against wet flesh and Lydia pulls her feet up flat on the bed, knees bent, and spreads her hands over his hips. He drops his head down and kisses the right side of her neck, her earlobe, her temple. 

She turns her head to the side, her cheek pressing against his shoulder. “That feels good,” she sighs, just to get the point across in case he wasn't sure.

“Good,” he murmurs, fingers teasing at her opening.

“Two,” she requests, her face flaming, and lets her knees fall open.

He stretches his thumb up and anchors it, making her gasp sharply in surprise, and then he slips two fingers inside her. Lydia rolls her hips and moans in relief at the feeling of having him inside her, over her, her body caught in his hand. Stiles stares down at her face as he curls his fingers inside her. The breath catches in her chest as she looks up at him, her mouth dropping open as something deep in her pelvis starts to build. She rocks her hips, following the slow steady rhythm he's setting for her.

It starts deep inside her this time, the muscles in her thighs beginning to tremble as the ache transforms into a relentless pressure that makes her want to sob, her skin suddenly too tight. She clutches onto his shoulders, feeling like she's going to cry from the sheer intensity of it. She feels out of control, needy. She starts to shake, her throat tightening as little desperate cries start to spill out of her mouth.

Stiles reaches up and spreads his left hand over the top of her head and she arches into his palm. Her stomach tightens and she digs her fingers into his sides, helpless, and tucks her face against his neck. His fingers speed up and she rolls her hips frantically, chasing his touch until every muscle in her body suddenly locks up and then breaks under the pressure in a pulsing rush of liquid heat. She's gone, she can't do anything other than cling to him and cry out as she shakes and shakes against him, coming in dry sobs as her body clenches around his fingers.

He kisses her and Lydia whimpers into his mouth as he takes his fingers out of her. He makes a little apologetic noise and brushes the pads of his fingers against her. She hisses, a little oversensitive, her hips jumping at his touch. He gets another tissue and Lydia spreads her legs so he can clean her up again, her heart hammering in her chest. Stiles tosses the tissue into the wastebasket and stretches out next to her before pulling Lydia into him, his arms circling around her. She rest her head on his chest, listening to the reassuring pound of his heart in her ear as his hands idly stroke her bare back, her robe crumpled underneath their bodies.

“You're so beautiful,” he whispers. “You know that right?”

She lifts her head to look at him and her mouth is full of words she's afraid to say so she kisses him instead. He parts his lips and languidly kisses her back. They kiss until her breathing comes back down, her naked body half-sprawled over him, his hands skimming over her spine, the curve of her ass, the dip of her waist.

Eventually Stiles pulls away and gives her a dopey smile, like he's drunk on her, and reaches up to smooth back a few strands of hair that have escaped her braid. “So did you actually want to watch a movie?”

Lydia drops her chin to his chest and laughs. “Sure, we can do that. My mom won't be home for awhile, want to go downstairs and watch something on an actual tv screen?”

“Sure.” His hands smooth over the backs of her shoulders and Lydia has to force herself to pull away from him, because she could spend the whole night here, naked in her bed with him.

“I should probably get dressed.” She sits up to stretch, watching the way he stares at her bare chest.

“If you must,” he says cheekily.

She playfully slaps his thigh as she gets out of bed and pads across the carpet over to her dresser. She bends over on purpose to open the bottom drawer, sticking her ass out and smiling to herself when she hears the soft choked noise Stiles makes behind her. She quickly pulls on a pair of comfy striped [shorts](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1528650576888) and a cropped tee, and turns around to watch as he slides off her bed.

“Ready?” she asks softly, and reaches for his hand.

Stiles grabs his hoodie and shoes and crosses the room to her as he reaches for her with his free hand. “Yeah. Hey, are you hungry? Have you had dinner yet?”

She shakes her head and gives him a sly smile. “Do you want to make me something?”

Stiles grins and he leans down to rest his forehead against hers. “Yeah I think I can handle that.”

“Oh yeah?” she teases.

“For you? Hell yeah.”

His fingers tighten around hers and she lets herself lean into him for a moment, soaking in the warmth of his affection, before leading him out of her bedroom and down the stairs, the palm of his hand hot and steady against hers.


	28. bitches get shit done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to add one more chapter because somehow I'm still terrible at outlining ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The first few days of the week leading up to the showcase pass in a haze of nerves and a wave of borderline hysteria that's crashing over everyone in level eight. All Lydia can think about is Saturday night, hurtling towards her like a speeding train. It's hard for her to focus on the fact that the showcase means school is almost over, for good.

There are so many things she'll never do again: live in a dorm room with Allison, visit Scott in Deaton’s office, work under Marin’s steady, sure presence every morning. It hurts like a hole in her chest, she feels like she's on the cusp of getting everything she ever wanted but she's losing so much too.

Her childhood and her innocence lived and died in this building; she grew up here, at school, it's made her into a dancer, a tenacious young woman full of fire and yearning, for stardom, for success.

Lydia stares at her naked body in the mirror when she takes showers in her dorm bathroom, running her fingers over taut muscle, sharp bones, trying to see it, the person she's supposed to be, a prima, a woman, someone who's transcended pain and fear, walked through fire, flew close to the sun and didn't burn.

_Focus._

This is who she is: one of the best dancers the school's ever made, special, anointed by Peter Hale himself.

His darling.

His star.

*

“This is so sad,” [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529458083365) declares mournfully on Wednesday afternoon, from where she's sitting on her bed packing up her dance bag. “It's our last tech ever.”

“You hate tech,” [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529458340086) points out, sitting on the floor with the contents of her dance bag spread around her crossed legs, searching for the patterned pair of Toesox that was part of her birthday gift from Stiles.

“Yeah, but now I'll never get to complain about it again. And it's kind of fun, in a this-sucks-but-we're-in-it-together kind of way.”

Lydia puts her pointe shoes and canvas ballet slippers into her bag with her toe pads, a pair of tights, and her tablet. “You're getting nostalgic in your old age.”

Allison reaches down to put on her shoes. “I'm just trying to take it all in before it's over.”

Lydia pulls her weekender out of her closet, sure her socks must be in them, and roots around for them, her fingers closing around a thin book instead. She pulls it out and laughs in surprise, it's the coloring book Stiles gave her for her birthday along with the elusive Toesox. She slips it into her bag along with the gel pens that came with it and digs into the inside pocket of her weekender, sighing in relief when she finds the folded pair of socks. She puts them in her dance bag, zips it shut, and laces up her Nikes.

“Ready?” Allison shoulders her dance bag and flicks off the light. “Oh yeah, hey, Kira's meeting us downstairs, she asked if we could give her a ride.”

“Okay.” Lydia follows Allison out of their room and down the hall to the elevator. “Tell your dad I said thank you for getting us a car.”

“ _My_ car. And it's not permanent.”

“But you're totally going to let me drive it sometime before you have to give it back, aren't you?”

Allison pretends to think really hard as she hits the button for the elevator, smiling mischievously. “Hmmm… I _guess_ that's okay.”

The doors to the elevator ding open and they both step in. Allison smacks the button for the lobby and slings her arm around Lydia's shoulders. “I'm gonna ask Dad if we can stay here for the summer.”

Lydia glances up at her in surprise. “You are?”

Allison gives her a wistful smile. “I'm not ready to leave yet.”

[Kira](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529544958016) is waiting for them in the lobby when they get out of the elevator, she gives them a bright smile and skips over to them, her ponytail swinging behind her. “Hi guys! Thank you so much for giving me a ride, I, um, didn't _really_ want to go with Cora and Erica.”

Allison laughs. “Don't worry, it's cool.”

“Thanks.” Kira gives Lydia a shy smile as they turn to follow Allison down the hallway to the back door. “Lydia, I love your top.”

“Thanks,” she says, and offers Kira a smile, because the other girl seems so nervous and Lydia can't do forty-five minutes in a car with that kind of energy, she's stressed enough as it is. “Hey, how was New York?”

“It was _amazing!_ ” Kira says enthusiastically. “Like, totally terrifying, but in a good way, you know? And - I think sometimes we all forget, because we're all just dancing with each other every day here and you know how I guess everyone can be a little, um…”

“Competitive?” Allison suggest dryly, pushing the back door open.

“Yeah,” Kira laughs, squinting against the sun as they walk out into the parking lot. “Anyway, I walked in there like, _so_ intimidated, by everyone. But then we all started warming up together and they watched us do a short barre class before our solos, and all of a sudden I realized - we're all amazing here. All of us. I was completely prepared, it was like being back in class with Marin. There was a girl who walked out _crying_ before we even got off the barre.”

Lydia clucks her tongue sympathetically, there's nothing more terrifying than realizing halfway through an audition that you're in completely over your head and everyone's going to know it.

Kira turns back around to look at the building as they reach Allison's temporary ride. “This place - being here was really hard for me sometimes. I never felt like I totally fit in but once I left - I realized how strong being here made me. It made us all strong.”

The three of them stand there in the parking lot, staring at their school, at this place which brought them pain and exhaustion and frustration every single day, where they bled and cried and pushed themselves to be tougher, stronger, faster.

The best.

“I think we should all be really proud of ourselves,” Allison says softly. “We did it.”

Lydia nods in agreement, thinking about standing against the back wall of the building right across the parking lot after another demoralizing rehearsal with Peter, crying to Stiles on the phone, blood in her mouth.

She did it.

She survived.

*

“I'm so _bored_ ,” [Erica](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529545952979) moans, pressing her cheek into the floor of the stage.

“Moving on!” Marin’s amplified voice calls out from where she's standing in the back of the theatre talking to one of the lighting guys.

“I don't even remember where we are,” [Malia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529546324211) complains, pouting as she stands up.

“That's because you missed three weeks of rehearsals,” Lydia reminds her.

“You should be grateful Marin’s even letting you go on,” [Cora](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529546575121) mutters.

Malia glares at her cousin. “It was her idea, not mine, she guilt tripped me into it. _You don't want to throw away everything the school has done for you, do you Mademoiselle Tate?_ ”

“She just didn't want to have to change the choreography from six girls to five,” Erica jokes, and everyone quietly snickers.

They all do a very slow pas de bourré and collapse back down on the floor when Marin shouts, “Cue!”

They stretch out on the floor while Marin figures out what gel she wants for the next three seconds of the piece. Lydia grabs her coloring book and flips over onto her stomach to continue the page she's working on, a mermaid floating on the surface of the sea on her back, eyes closed, a blissful smile on her face.

“Okay.” Cora slides down the stage and stretches out on her side next to Lydia, and shoots her a disparaging look. “What's the deal with that thing?”

Lydia doesn't bother looking up. “It's calming,” she says primly.

Allison giggles. “Her boyfriend gave it to her.”

“He's not my boyfriend,” Lydia whispers, her cheeks going hot.

“He's basically your boyfriend,” Allison argues.

“Not officially.”

“So make it official.”

“We have an understanding,” Lydia says vaguely, idly coloring the water in with a sparkling light blue pen. “We can be official after the showcase.”

“You're going to prom with him, how is that not official?”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Cora moans. “Forget I said anything.”

*

“I'm so bored,” Aiden whispers next to [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529717894469) the next afternoon, when they're sitting in the empty audience of the theatre with [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529873179578) and Isaac, waiting for Cora’s solo from Raymonda to finish.

Up on stage [Cora](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529874011816) is waiting patiently, her arms down at her sides, until Marin commands her to pick it up where they left off. Cora does a few pirouettes before she has to stop again, her mouth tightening just a fraction. Allison gets up and climbs over a chair to sit next to Lydia as Isaac gets out of their row and starts walking up the aisle.

“We're gonna warm up a little in the lobby, wanna come?”

Lydia glances at Aiden, who nods and leaps up, holding his hand out to Lydia. “Anything would be better than watching the princess do this in slow motion for the millionth time,” he mutters.

They quietly file up the aisle and push through the heavy wooden doors embossed in gold scrolls and go into the lobby. The four of them stand in a small circle together, following along as Allison steps her feet apart in a wide second, turning out from her hips.

“Two demis, one grand.” Allison smiles cheekily and they all extend their arms out to the sides.

“And plié, two, three four,” Allison counts slowly for them so they're all on the same beat and they bend their knees in unison. “Up, six, seven, eight. Again, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Grand, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.”

There's a sacred feeling to this, the four of them warming up together quietly in the lobby, in the theatre where careers have been made, stars launched, their bodies repeating movements they've done hundreds of thousands of times along to the soft sound of Allison's voice. It makes something go tight in the back of Lydia's throat, watching Isaac's legs bend and flex in perfect time with Allison, like they're one person in two bodies.

Aiden lets his fingers brush against hers teasingly as they complete a port de bras. Lydia pokes his ankle with her toe when she tendus to the side and ducks, laughing, when he tries to get her back, poking her in the side with his foot. She spins behind Isaac, who reaches back and catches her by the wrist to pull her around his body. Allison gives up on warming up and grabs Lydia's other hand and when Derek sticks his head out the door of the theater five minutes later they're all doing a deranged group twirl around the lobby, their hands all tangled together as they spin, the walls blurring out to teak and gold swirls.

“Hey you four, quit it.” Derek shoots them all a stern look and they stop messing around, freezing right where they're standing. “Lydia and Aiden, you're up next, Allison and Isaac, you're after them.”

Lydia reaches up to smooth out the tendrils of hair brushing against her temples. “Do I have time to go to the bathroom?”

“Make it quick. Everyone else, inside, lets go,” Derek snaps. “This is tech, not a dance party.”

Allison rolls her eyes at Lydia as she breaks away to follow the boys back into the theatre. Lydia walks past the entrance to the theatre and goes down the hallway that runs alongside it to the woman's bathroom. She pushes through the door and stops just inside the room; Cora’s here, hunched over one of the sinks, crying so hard her shoulders are shaking. Her head whips to the side when the door bangs shut, her face is very pale and her eyes are red and swollen.

“What are you looking at?” she sneers.

Lydia stares at her, frozen. “What's wrong?”

Cora sniffs furiously. “Did you think you were the only one of us that's under any pressure?”

Lydia shakes her head and shuffles to the side so she can sink down on the divan, watching as Cora wipes her tears away with a paper towel. She goes back to the sink and splashes cold water on her face before examining her reflection in the mirror.

“You know what everyone's going to say,” Cora says suddenly, her voice thick.

“About what?” Lydia asks.

“Us. You and I.” Cora wets the edge of a paper towel and runs it underneath her eyes to fix her smudged makeup. “They're going to compare us both to Laura. I'm the last one in the family, and you, well…” She balls up the paper towel and throws it into the trash. “What did happen between you and Peter before he left, anyway?”

Lydia stares at her. “Derek didn't tell you?”

Cora shakes her head. “Nope. One day he was gone, just like that.” She snaps her fingers. “Just like everyone else in my family.”

“Derek stayed,” Lydia reminds her quietly.

“Derek's drowning,” Cora says bluntly. “You think he can really run a company? He has no idea what he's doing. It was never supposed to be him, anyway. My parents always wanted it to be Laura, eventually. Not that it matters anymore. He's the only one left.”

“Better Derek than Peter,” Lydia says, feeling strangely defensive of Derek, remembering how gentle his hand was on her shoulder during her first rehearsal with him, how he kept reminding her that she was safe.

Cora shoulders her bag and closes the space between them, suddenly dropping down on the divan next to Lydia. “For what it's worth,” she says. “I told Derek having Peter come back to choreograph was a bad idea. He wouldn't listen to me. He let Peter walk right in and fuck everything up.”

“It wasn't your fault.”

“He killed my sister,” Cora whispers. “Maybe he didn't pull the trigger but. He was a tyrant in rehearsal, everyone knew about it. And after what happened to our parents, and having to take custody of me, and god, fucking Derek. It was too much for her. And she never said anything to us, or asked for help. She just - handled it. Until she couldn't anymore.”

“I'm sorry.”

Cora sighs. “Uncle Peter was never the same after the fire. None of us were.”

“Do you ever think about quitting?”

Cora shrugs. “Sure, sometimes, I guess. But I can't. I'm a Hale, this is who I am. Who my family is. Even though my parents aren't around I feel like - I'd be letting them down.”

Lydia's mother's words echo in her head: _I've done everything for you, everything to give you what you needed, to make you happy, and this is how you repay me?_

“Yeah,” she says softly. “I get that.”

“I cried the first time I had to do a recital,” Cora reminisces. “My mom had to practically push me onstage. I always thought about that, after. Her, in the wings. Watching me.”

“I never got stage fright,” Lydia muses. “I always loved it.”

“You know what Laura used to tell me before recitals, after my parents died?”

“What?” Lydia asks curiously, a little shocked that Cora's opening up like this. 

But Cora's also right, the two of them are bonded by this, by Peter, no one could possibly know what it feels like to be them right now, except each other. They're connected whether they like it or not.

“Screw everyone in the audience. It doesn't matter what they think. It's not about them. Go onstage for you, and kick some ass.” 

Lydia smiles. “That's good.”

Cora's mouth twists to one side. “She was a prima but she was also like - she was a badass bitch who went out there on stage every night and got shit done, you know?”

Lydia thinks of Laura's technical ability, how she must have had nerves like steel, to work for Peter for years, to suffer so deeply on the inside and never let it show, danced perfectly on stage night after night, until it finally ate her alive.

Laura Hale: a star, an ingenue, an idol. A dead girl.

“Yeah,” Lydia agrees.

“You know they'll all be talking about us on Saturday. Not Allison, or Kira, or Erica. I'm Laura's sister and you're Peter's shiny new girl. Everyone's going to be watching us.”

“I know.”

Cora curls her hand into a fist and holds it out to Lydia, a serious expression on her face. “Kick ass?”

Lydia taps her knuckles against Cora's and nods solemnly. “Kick ass.”

*

By the time everyone is finished for the day it's after six. They all split up, Isaac leaves with Cora and Derek to go back to the loft and Allison drives Lydia and Aiden since he and Allison are staying in the dorms tonight.

By the time they make it back to Beacon Hills and Allison drops Lydia off at her house it's getting dark out. She trudges inside and drops her gym bag down on the floor by the stairs and walks down the hall. Her mother is in the kitchen drinking a glass of wine and flipping through a copy of In Style; Lydia drops down into her chair where her mother has left a plate out for her covered with a glass lid.

“Hey baby, I made you dinner.” Her mother offers her a tired smile. “How'd it go?”

“Fine.” Lydia removes the cover and examines her plate: a grilled chicken breast, half a baked sweet potato shining with melted butter, and a small spinach salad. “Thanks for making me dinner.”

Her mother's fingers catch on a magazine page. “You're welcome.”

Lydia looks down at her plate and focuses on cutting her chicken into tiny cubes before taking a bite. After a moment her mother turns back to her magazine and Lydia eats in silence, mechanically working through her plate until she's managed to eat the salad, most of her chicken and half of the sweet potato. Her mother sighs when Lydia puts down her fork and drains her water glass. “Lydia, honey…”

“I'm full,” Lydia snaps, and carries her plate over to the sink and scrapes everything she couldn't finish into the garbage disposal. “I have to take a shower.”

Her mother's mouth pinches, her lips pressing together for a moment. “Alright.”

“Okay.” Lydia walks out of the kitchen, reaching up to rub her forehead, wishing she could magically wipe the tension away.

She takes her bag upstairs and puts it on the floor in front of her room before continuing on to the bathroom. She peels off her clothes and tosses everything into the hamper, takes her hair out of its bun, and steps into the shower. She turns the water on hot and stands under the spray for a long time, letting the water pound down on her shoulders, her wet hair sticking to her back. She takes her time washing up and combs conditioner through her hair with her fingers, resting her forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall while it soaks in before rinsing her hair clean and stepping out.

She wraps a towel around herself and blow dries her hair, brushes it upside down and twists it up into a messy bun. Lydia goes back to her room and changes into a soft pink bralette and a pair of floral print [leggings](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529877697030). She unfurls her yoga mat next to her bed and starts a playlist on her laptop before sitting down on the floor to put on her socks. The feeling comes back, that rush of almost-panic, nostalgia so bittersweet it makes her ache, knowing that she won't be here much longer, stretching on the floor of her bedroom in her mother's house after a long day. She takes a deep breath and exhales through her nose before standing up and swinging her arms around a few times.

She starts with her neck, turning her head from side to side to gently stretch, feeling the muscles release as she breathes. She does a few standing shoulder stretches and drops her chin to her chest, rolls her head down until she can lay her hands flat on the floor to stretch her back. Lydia comes down on her hand and knees and does cat/cows, bird dogs and fire hydrants before pushing back into child's pose, resting her forehead on the mat. She kicks her feet back and pushes her hands under her shoulders until she's in a plank, then lifts her hips up to go into down dog. She does pigeon pose on both sides, a few lunge variations, and stretches out on her back to do her ab series.

By the time she's finished it's after ten, Lydia peels off her socks and starts rolling up her mat when her phone rings from where it's sitting on the nightstand. She props her yoga mat up against the wall and reaches for her phone, smiling as she swipes the screen to answer. “Hi, Stiles.”

“Lydia! Hey, Lydia, how's it going?” There's an undertone in his voice she doesn't quite recognize, his words just a little less crisp than usual, like he's talking around a drink.

“I'm okay, I just finished stretching. What's up?”

“Cool, cool! Hey, so, I'm at Jungle, today was the last day of school for us so I am celebrating and it's lovely, just fantastic” -

“Stiles, are you drunk?”

“Irrelevant!” he declares. “I am calling because I am in need of backup. Preferably the kind that comes with a car and a sober driver.”

“Stiles, what's going on?”

“Your friend is here, Malia? Attitude, cast on one hand, hot - I mean, not as hot as you, no one’s as hot as you are, I just meant” -

“It's fine,” she says, trying not to laugh. “What about Malia?”

“Well, so the thing is, she's about to make a really bad decision.”

“Sounds like Malia.”

“Yeahhhhh look, trust me, you don't want her doing this, Theo Raeken is so not the kind of casual bad decision someone can make and think there won't be any consequences.” 

“Stiles, I have no idea who you're talking about. She's hooking up with a guy? So?”

“Not any guy! Theo Raeken!”

“And?”

“He's a bad guy, okay? The worst. And from where I'm standing he and Malia look _very_ friendly right now and from what I saw earlier she is in no state to consent to anything with anybody and I know for a fact Theo doesn't give a shit about things like that, and I'd fight him myself but I may not have the best hand eye coordination when I'm sober let alone when I'm inebriated and I thought maybe she'd listen to you if you were here?”

“Got it,” she says, thinking about how vulnerable Malia is right now, how she's been rejected by parent after parent, passed from family to family like a broken heirloom, how easy it would be for her will to be swayed by someone claiming to want her. “I'm on my way, don't let her leave with him, okay?”

“I'm all over it,” he declares. “Thank you, you are a goddess! Text me when you get here!” he crows, and hangs up.

Lydia changes into a grey top and a pair of floral print [shorts](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529873701710), slips her phone into her pocket, makes sure her wallet is in her Chloé bag, and goes downstairs. Her mother's gone up for the night, Lydia quietly puts on her flats, grabs the car keys from the dish, and lets herself out, gently closing the door behind her and locking it. She jogs down the steps to the car, unlocks it and gets into the driver's seat. She backs out of the driveway with her headlights off just in case, waiting until she gets to the end of the street to turn them on.

Jungle is only fifteen minutes away with traffic, she makes it in ten and parks right outside the club, leaving her hazard lights on as she gets out and walks around the car to get into the line winding down the sidewalk. She texts Stiles as she waits, when it's her turn she gets a wristband and slips inside, spotting Stiles leaning up against a wall next to a girl wearing a bright pink wig sitting a little askew on her head.

“Lydia, Lydia, hey!” Stiles waves frantically at her as Lydia walks around a shot girl carrying a tray of neon blue drinks. “This is my friend Caitlin, I don't think you've met her yet, right? We lost Emily, she's around here somewhere.”

“My girlfriend,” Caitlin explains, before throwing her arms around Lydia. “It's so nice to finally meet you!”

“You too,” Lydia says, a bit thrown at a random girl hugging her seconds after being introduced. 

Caitlin taps Stiles’ arm. “I'm going to find Emily, are you good?”

“Yeah, thanks, I'll text you later.” He gives her a quick hug and Caitlin waves at Lydia as she walks away and pushes through the crowd towards the bar.

“Stiles, where's Malia?” Lydia asks.

“This way.” He holds out his hand to her and Lydia threads her fingers through his, following as he turns a corner and points at a booth on the edge of the dance floor. “She and Theo haven't moved since I called you.”

There's a guy, Theo she supposes, with ridiculous bone structure and light eyes that glow in the dark club and [Malia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529874375400) is draped over him, her legs stacked across his thighs, her head resting on his shoulder, miles of bare tanned stomach exposed by her cropped tee shirt. Her eyes are half shut and her hair is falling over her face, and his arm is wrapped tightly around her shoulders as he whispers into her ear.

“I've got this,” she tells Stiles, and lets go of his hand, feeling him follow her anyway as she approaches the booth.

“Hey,” she says loudly, and when Malia doesn't react to her Lydia leans down over her and snaps her fingers in front of Malia's face. “Malia.”

The guy readjusts his hold on Malia and gives Lydia a haughty look. “And you are?”

She ignores him, reaching out to pat Malia's cheek. “Malia.”

Malia squints at her with unfocused eyes. “Lydia? What're you doing here?”

“Time to go,” Lydia says gently, and tries to pull her up, but Theo is holding on too tight.

“Hey, she's fine,” he says, giving her a smile that has a nasty little bite to it. “We're just having a little fun.”

“Not anymore,” Lydia says acidly. “Malia, come on, seriously, get up, we're leaving.”

“I don't wanna get up, I'm tired,” Malia groans, and her head flops back against the booth.

“See, she doesn't want to.” Theo smirks. “So why don't you pull that stick out of your ass and go get yourself a drink, sweetheart?”

She can hear Stiles sputter indignantly behind her and something in her snaps like a loose thread - she lifts her left foot and sticks the heel of her shoe as hard as she can against his crotch. Theo goes white and tries to lunge at her but Lydia leans forward and shoves her hands against his shoulders so she has him pinned, the combined dead weight of Malia's body and Lydia's foot trapping him against the booth.

“Listen up buddy,” she says, and gives him a sickly smile, so he knows she's enjoying this. “I've had a very stressful few weeks and I am not in the mood to deal with a troglodyte like you right now. So this is what you're going to do, okay? You're going to let my friend go, right now, or I'm going to rip your balls off with my bare hands and feed them to you, understand?”

She applies a little more pressure with her foot and Theo makes a choking noise, nodding desperately.

“Say you understand,” Lydia sing-songs.

“I understand, fuck, let me go!” he gasps

“You first.”

He gives her a withering look, his eyes tearing up, and slowly unwinds his arm from Malia's body. Lydia doesn't move to let him go, just turns around to look at Stiles, who's staring at her with his mouth wide open. “Stiles, a little help here?”

He rushes forward and bends down in front of Malia, who's blinking heavily at all of them, like she has absolutely no idea what's happening and she's too messed up to follow along. “Whass happening?” she slurs, and drops forward right into Stiles’ arms.

A tear rolls down Theo’s cheek. “Please,” he grits out.

Stiles pulls Malia up and lets her lean against him, his hands holding her up by her arms. “Lydia, let's go.”

She stares Theo down for a second that lasts a lifetime - cold blue eyes that want nothing more than to see her break to pieces, eyes she has nightmares about, eyes she sees in the dark.

She lets go with her hands first, balanced on her right leg, and then slowly removes her foot. He crumples over sideways in the booth, moaning, and she can't look away, shivery cold and completely fascinated - she's so used to being broken, the one on the floor. She's never done this to another person, intentionally hurt them and watched as they fell apart under her touch.

“Lydia!” Stiles sounds concerned, when Lydia turns around he's looking at Theo with wide eyes. “We need to go.”

“Okay.”

She starts to walk over to him and Malia but then behind her she hears Theo say, very distinctly, “Bitch.”

Lydia whirls around, grabs a shot off the nearest tray and hurls it at him, glass and all, forcing Theo to duck as it sails past his head and shatters against the wall.

“You're damn right I am,” she sneers. “Bitches get shit done.”

“Lydia!” Stiles shouts.

She blinks at him and suddenly the spell is broken, she rushes forward to stand on Malia's other side and help her walk out of Jungle, Malia's legs barely holding her own weight. Stiles has to buckle her into the passenger seat of Lydia’s mom's car before he gets in the back. Lydia starts the car and pulls out onto the street, glancing sideways at Malia, who’s slumped against the car door with her eyes shut.

“Malia, are you staying at the loft?”

“Mmhm.”

Lydia sighs quietly. “You know we have dress rehearsal tomorrow.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Malia mumbles. “I don't care.”

“Malia, come on.”

“It doesn't matter,” Her words are barely audible, but Lydia hears the subtext as clearly as if Malia screamed it.

_I don't matter._

“Is this about him?” she asks gently.

Malia laughs hollowly. “Isn't everything?”

Lydia swallows and grips the steering wheel. When she glances in her rearview mirror Stiles is staring at her from the backseat with liquid eyes, his cheeks a little flushed.

When they get to the loft Lydia pulls the car up to the entrance to the building and parks. “I'm calling Isaac,” she announces, pulls her phone out of the pocket of her shorts and dials his number.

He picks up on the second ring, sounding confused, like he can't think of a single reason why she might be calling. “Lydia?”

“Are you at the loft?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I picked Malia up from Jungle, I need help getting her inside.”

“Oh shit, are you here?”

“I'm parked outside.”

“Okay, I'm coming out, hang on.”

Lydia hangs up and a few minutes later Isaac comes out barefoot, wearing a pair of basketball shorts and a company tee shirt. Lydia turns around and looks at Stiles, who's stretched out across the backseat, looking a little sleepy. “Will you be okay here for a minute?”

“Sure,” he says, and offers her a bleary smile.

Lydia gets out of the car and walks around to where Isaac's standing in front of the passenger door. “Hey,” she says. “Thanks, I don't think she can really walk.”

“She got smashed, huh?” Isaac yanks the car door open and crouches down. “Hey, there she is. Come on, time to get out princess.”

Malia blinks hazily at him as Isaac leans into the car to unbuckle her seatbelt. “We're here?”

“Home sweet home. Can you walk?” Isaac asks. 

Malia bursts into giggles. “I can't feel my face.”

“Oh Jesus,” he mutters. “Okay, come on, you're taking the Isaac train inside.”

“I get a ride?” Malia makes a gleeful noise and wraps her arms around Isaac's neck. “I love rides.”

“That's because you're lazy,” he says fondly, and scoops her up in a bridal carry, using his foot to slam the door shut. “Hey Lydia, can you get the door for me?”

“Sure. Stiles, I'll be back in a minute!” she calls out, and jogs ahead to open the front door.

“Thanks,” Isaac says, walking through the doorway. “Would you mind coming up with us to get the loft door too? Don't worry, Derek's not here.”

“Sure.”

Lydia rides the creepy service elevator with them up to the loft and Isaac passes his keys to her so she can unlocks the heavy metal door. She has to throw all her weight into it to get the door to open. She walks into the cavernous living room and Isaac passes by her to drop Malia onto the couch.

“Sorry,” he tells her cheerfully. “I'm not crazy enough to try to get you up those stairs to your room.”

“Guest room,” Malia mumbles, stretching out on her stomach, and mashes her face into a throw pillow.

“Your room,” he says stubbornly, and shakes out a folded blanket so he can drape it over her.

“Sorry I'm such a mess,” Malia says into the pillow. “Sorry you had to save me, Lydia.”

“It's fine,” she says. “You're fine. Close your eyes.”

“‘Kay,” Malia murmurs.

Isaac brushes his lips against her forehead before standing up. “I'm going to get you a glass of water.”

“You good from here?” Lydia asks him softly.

“Yeah, c’mon.” He puts a gentle hand on her shoulder and walks her to the door. “Thanks for giving her a ride home,” he says in a low voice. “I think - that thing that happened last week, about her birth mom - that’ll mess someone up, you know?”

Lydia looks at him and gets a sudden flash of sickening clarity - sitting across the table from Allison in the cafeteria, Allison telling her how Isaac came to the school.

_Derek pretty much took Isaac and threw him in the Camaro and they went straight to the Sheriff's station._

No one has ever seen Mr. Lahey since Isaac came to HSB.

Lydia goes up on her tiptoes and throws her arms around Isaac's neck.

“Whoa, what's this for?” Isaac tentatively hugs her back, sounding baffled.

“Just because.” Lydia holds him very tightly for a moment before she lets him go. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Isaac give her a crooked smile as she walks out.

Lydia takes the elevator back down and walks out of the building, frowning slightly when she gets outside. Stiles is leaning up against the passenger door of the car talking to [Cora](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1529976269196), who's wearing a tight black dress and cage sandals, her long hair pulled back in a high ponytail. When Stiles catches sight of Lydia he breaks out in a huge smile, and Cora turns around to follow his line of sight. She says something Lydia can't hear and saunters over towards her, a sly smile on her face.

“Cute,” Cora murmurs, tilting her head back at Stiles, and passes Lydia to go inside.

Stiles gets into the passenger seat as Lydia walks down to the car and gets in, buckling up before starting the engine. “So you met Cora.”

“Yeah.” Stiles’ eyes are a little wide. “She's terrifying.”

Lydia laughs. “That's Cora.”

She turns the car around to head towards Stiles’ house. He slides a little sideways in his seat and reaches over with his left hand to cup her bare thigh. “Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey.” His thumb rubs circles against her skin and Lydia sighs, sinking lower in her seat as she brakes for a red light.

“Thanks for getting us,” Stiles says. “I know you've got dress rehearsal tomorrow and this was probably the last thing you wanted to do tonight.”

“It sounded like you needed help, I don't mind. It's fine, I don't have class tomorrow anyway.”

“Isn't that such a weird feeling?” he says, the words coming out a little loose, like he's just drunk enough to be lazy with his enunciation.

“Yeah,” she agrees.

“Like - I'm never gonna go to a normal high school class again, or study for a high school final, or lacrosse practice. It doesn't feel real.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Hey, Lydia?”

“Yeah?”

“I decided on school.”

“You did?”

“Yup. I finally made a decision, no big, it's not like my entire future depends on making the right choice or anything,” he says, sounding slightly frenetic.

“Well are you going to tell me or make me guess?”

 _San Francisco_ , she thinks desperately. _San Francisco, San Francisco, let it be San Francisco_.

“I'm going to San Francisco.”

Her heart slams against her chest and Lydia turns her head to the side to look at him. “You are?”

He nods firmly. “Yeah. It's what I want. Dad's not thrilled but he gets it.”

She can't help but smile selfishly, he's not leaving. “Good.”

“Green light,” he says softly, and she startles and lets her foot off the brake.

“So like, did you mean good like, good for you, or good, I had a personal investment in your choice of college?” he asks.

Lydia presses her lips together for a second. “Both,” she admits quietly.

He squeezes her thigh. “So we could be in the same place next year.”

“I have to get into the company first.”

“You will.”

“You don't know that.”

“I know that you're incredibly talented and Derek Hale would have to be fucking stupid not to take you, that's good enough for me.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

Stiles grins. “You're gonna get in. I just know it. I've got a feeling.”

“Oh yeah?”

He taps his fingers against her thigh. “Yeah.”

When she gets to his house Lydia pulls the car into the driveway and parks next to the Jeep. “Do you need help getting in?”

“Nah, me? I'm good, I'm a little, hmm, somewhat tipsy, but I'm not like, incapable of walking.”

“If you say so.” Lydia unbuckles her seatbelt and leans across the console towards him. “I'll see you Saturday, right?”

Stiles twists out of his seatbelt and reaches up with one hand to stroke her cheek. “I can't wait.”

She doesn't know which one of them leans in first, all of a sudden their lips are brushing and Lydia closes her eyes, sinking into the kiss. He sighs against her, sucking on her bottom lip for a second before turning his head to the side to kiss underneath her jaw.

“This is probably the wrong thing to say but watching you threaten to feed Theo Raeken his balls was the hottest thing I've ever seen in real life," he says feverishly, and kisses her throat.

“You're so weird,” she says affectionately.

“But you like me anyway,” he says. “Right?”

“I do,” she confirms, and lets her head fall to the side so he can kiss all the way down her neck.

“Hey, uh, do we need to talk about that?” His hands slip under her top. “Not that it wasn't badass and everything, but I don't think I've ever seen you angry like that before.”

His fingers creep over her stomach and she goes stiff. “So? He deserved it, didn't he?”

“Oh yeah, fuck yeah, I just mean - do you think it's possible you may have been projecting your anger for someone else onto an easy target?”

She thinks about all those times she's seen a glint of blue in the dark, broken glass, waking up from a nightmare of teeth pulling her flesh apart. “Possibly,” she concedes.

“Mm.” Stiles uses his hands to pull her closer to him, so she's almost in his lap. “You want to talk about it?”

She leans her head down until it's fitted into that space against his shoulder. “Not really.”

“Lydia.”

“I'm okay.”

His hands sweep up and down her back. “Please don't get mad at me for saying this but - I'm not sure you are. I just mean, what happened to you, it's a lot. No one expects you to get over it right away.”

“I know,” she says thickly, suddenly feeling like she might cry.

“Do you need anything?” he asks quietly.

She shakes her head against the fabric of his burgundy tee shirt. “Just you.”

“You have me already.”

She lifts her head. “Stiles.”

He gives her a slow, gentle smile and reaches up to cup her cheeks in his hands. “I like you _so much_ ,” he says emphatically. “You know that, right?”

She nods slowly, feeling the warmth of his palms sink into her skin. “I know.”

“You wanna stay here for a minute?” he asks. “Since neither of us have to get up for school early.”

Lydia gives in and swings her leg over his so she's sitting in his lap, and leans back down to rest her head on his chest, feeling the reassuring thump of his heart against her ear. “Yeah,” she says softly. “Let's do that.”

Stiles kisses the top of her head and loops his arms around her. “Okay.”

She turns her head to the side to kiss his neck, smiling when she hears him groan faintly. “Okay.”


	29. my darling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure this will come as a surprise to exactly no one but be warned, the angst is back.

On Friday afternoon everyone who's dancing in the showcase meets inside the theatre in San Francisco for group class to warm up before they start dress rehearsal. Derek is waiting for them on the stage as they all file in from the back of the theatre and dump their bags in the aisles before joining him. There's so much energy in the room [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530741066761) can practically hear it crackling, the nervous tension of twelve dancers who've been training for years for this weekend, everything they've done at school culminating in this one show, one night to launch their careers, be offered contracts with Salt Lake City or San Francisco or ABT, or, dare they dream it, the Hale Ballet Company.

“Spread out,” Derek instructs, casual in jeans and a heather grey vee neck. “Girls in the front line, boys staggered in the back.”

Lydia follows [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530741542089) as they get into the front line between [Erica](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530742018402) and [Kira](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530742152725). Aiden slides in behind Lydia, stopping to pat her hip before getting into line behind her next to his brother. She flashes him a smile before turning around, taking a slow deep breath to calm her nerves so she can focus.

“Let's start with pliés,” Derek calls out. “First, second, fourth, and fifth, you know the drill.”

Once they get started it almost feels like being back at school, all of them working together like they have since they were in their first recital together in Level One, the reassuring familiar sequence of Derek’s plié series. She can almost forget where she is, why she's here, get lost in the repetitive movements, like it's a normal day, a normal class.

Except this isn't a regular class, this is a warm up for the dress rehearsal of the most important show of her life.

She has to be perfect. Everything has to be perfect.

She's gotten this far and it's too late to break, not when she's finally made it here, to this moment, cracked maybe but still whole. This is it, her last chance to prove her worth, her talent, make everyone in the room fall in love with her with the flick of her pointe shoes.

Her chance to become a star.

She looks out at the empty theatre as they all move through Derek's warm up, imagining the seats filled with people. She thinks about hundreds of eyes watching her move, judging and critiquing her, comparing her to Cora, Allison, all the other girls in her level.

Laura.

What will they see, when they watch her dance? A ballerina, a prima, a star? Someone worthy of their love and adoration?

Or another faceless, nameless girl, just another too-thin body in a sea of legs and arms.

Who is she even without this, her dream, her singular focus - if she doesn't make it into the company then all of this, everything she's devoted herself to will have been for nothing.

She has to dance for her life tomorrow, she has to get that spot in the company.

Marin comes in from the wings and instructs the girls to put their pointe shoes on. She takes over for Derek and leads them through a jump series to get their feet warmed up before declaring class over and instructing everyone to go downstairs and get dressed for their first pieces. Everyone grabs their things and split, the boys go off stage right and the girls go stage left, walk through the wings and down a short flight of stairs to the ladies dressing room.

They all spread out in front of the mirrors, Lydia sinks down in a chair next to Allison and reaches into her dance bag to take out all her cosmetics cases. She brushes her hair back in a tight ponytail and twists her hair around into a bun, securing it with pins and a hair net. She stands up to shellack her head with hairspray before sitting back down to put on her stage makeup.

She carefully applies foundation, concealer, rosy pink blush. She covers her eyelids with shimmery pink shadow and traces black cream eyeliner over her lash line. She puts on false eyelashes and takes a break to do Allison's eyes for her before going back to do her lips, painting them in cherry red lipstick. She puts the cap on the tube and stares at herself at the mirror, fascinated at her reflection:

The girl looking back at her in the mirror glows. Her skin is flawless, her eyes are huge and her lips are shiny and plump. She looks unreal, like a doll, a woman in a magazine.

A star.

Marin comes in and makes sure each girl has the right costume before they all start getting dressed. The showcase starts with the girls group piece Marin choreographed, they're wearing simple matching tutus in complementary colors. Lydia carefully steps into her royal blue [tutu](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530240960552) and tugs up the straps before getting her pointe shoes on. Allison puts on her pastel pink [tutu](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530240863068) and stands close to her, her cheeks flushed, lips painted a shimmery pink.

Once everyone is dressed Marin lines them up and has them follow her back up the stairs and onto the stage. The heavy burgundy curtain has been drawn and they all scatter to find their places, looking down at the floor for little white taped x’s. Lydia finds her spot between [Kira](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530584729146) and Allison and gets into line, closing her feet into fifth position and curving her arms above her head. Across from her [Malia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530241819737) mirrors her pose, crossing her good hand over the splint on her other hand. Lydia catches [Cora's](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530584884823) eye from where she's standing behind Malia and there's a moment where Cora gives her a hard stare before she lifts one eyebrow, a little glimmer in her eye.

 _Kick ass_.

The curtain flies up as the music starts, the sound of strings playing a minor chord trembling in the air before the tempo picks up. Lydia moves seamlessly into the choreography, her body remembering every dip and turn, weaving across the stage. For three minutes she doesn't think, she doesn't do anything but dance perfectly in time to the music. As far as she can tell everything goes well; Malia manages to get through it even with her hand, no one misses a cue or turns the wrong way, by the time the music stops they've all ended in the right places.

They all follow [Erica](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530584817010) off the stage, walking through the wings where Ethan is waiting to go on, jumping up and down to stay warm and shaking out of his arms. The girls all go down the stairs and scurry into the dressing room to change into their next costume.

“Wait, we have to take a photo first!” Erica shrieks.

They all gather together, careful not to crush their tutus, and manage to take a few group selfies on Erica's phone before everyone strips down for their next piece. Lydia hangs her tutu up on the costume rack and combs through the hangers until she finds her [costume](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530480842679) for Little Red and the Wolf. It's different than what she wore for the promotional photographs, she's wearing what Peter wanted for her, the costume arranged before Derek made him leave - a cherry red leotard that matches her lipstick, worn underneath a little white dress Aiden will take off at the end of their first pas de deux. Her costume is by far the most modern of them all, aside from Allison maybe, who's wearing a gold slip [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530481873912) for Romeo and Juliet, a gold tiara covered in pink roses pushed into her dark hair.

“Picture?” Allison asks.

Lydia loops her arm around Allison's waist and smiles while Allison takes pictures of them on her phone. “Look!” she squeals, holding it out to Lydia. “We look so good.”

Lydia smiles, drawing comfort from Allison's warmth and excitement, the familiar bustle of the dressing room. A few feet away [Kira](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530582049678) is adjusting her tiara in the mirror while Marin clucks her tongue impatiently. “We do not have time for this Mademoiselle Yukimura!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Kira cries frantically. “I'm ready, I'm ready!”

[Erica](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530582950643) rolls her eyes at Kira's back as she disappears up the stairs and goes back to spraying her curls with hairspray before sliding a red floral adorned comb into the side of her bun. Next to her Cora's getting into her Raymonda [costume](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530583473253), the sparkling fabric striking against her pale skin. Malia is sitting by herself in her dark teal colored tutu digging through her street clothes, the girls are all going to dinner together when dress rehearsal is over.

It's such a waste, Lydia thinks with a sharp sudden ache, for Malia to not perform her solo. Malia isn't as good as Lydia or Cora but she's still talented, she's pushed herself for years to be able to keep up with them, she deserves to be onstage sparkling in a tutu, showing everyone what those long legs of hers can do, instead of hiding underneath the stage in the dressing room with a broken hand, small and ashamed of who she is, who she comes from.

Lydia can still hear it in her head, the sound it made when Malia slammed her fist into the wall, and she twitches, turning away so she doesn't have to look at her anymore. Allison shifts from side to side, restless, and brushes Lydia's bare shoulder with her fingertips. “You're up after me right?”

Lydia nods, the order of the pieces in the showcase is posted on sheets of paper backstage and in the dressing rooms but she has it memorized anyway. “Boyd and Erica’s solos are in between us.”

“Want to go up and watch?”

“Sure.”

She follows Allison up the stairs, Erica trailing after them. They quietly walk backstage and stand in the wings; Boyd is already here, watching Jackson perform Condrad’s variation from Le Corsaire. 

“Hey babe,” Erica whisper-squeals, and blows him a kiss so she doesn't mess up her stage makeup.

“You look hot,” he says in a low voice.

“Really?” Lydia whispers, trying to ignore the fact that only a few curtains are separating her from her ex-boyfriend. “Do you two have to do this right now?”

“Jealous?” Erica trills.

“I think I'm going to be sick,” Lydia mutters, and turns around so she doesn't have to watch Jackson dance.

Erica smirks. “You need to get laid.”

Allison stifles a laugh with the palm of her hand as Lydia levels a glare at Erica. “That isn't the problem, trust me.”

Erica grins, delighted. “Really? Whose dick have you been sitting on lately?”

Lydia wrinkles her nose at Erica's crudeness while Allison giggles. “She has a boyfriend.”

“He's not my boyfriend,” Lydia hisses.

“He's basically her boyfriend,” Allison says knowingly. 

The music to Jackson's piece stops and Allison suddenly goes rigid. “Oh my god, we're up, oh my god, _where’s Isaac?_ ”

“He's entering from stage right,” Lydia reminds her.

“Oh right.” Allison lets out an exaggerated sigh before bouncing on her toes and walking through the wings so she can see Isaac waiting in the wings on the other side of the stage.

Lydia stands behind Allison so she can watch Isaac run on as the music to Romeo and Juliet starts. He's wearing a billowy white shirt tucked into a pair of grey tights that show off his leanly muscled quads, the sleeves of his shirt rippling in the air as he moves. He leaps across the stage, his curls flopping over his forehead as he breaks into a few turns before jumping again. Allison turns back at Lydia and lets out a little squeal of excitement before she jumps up and down a few times and runs out on stage to join Isaac.

Lydia watches from the wings as Allison runs in a circle around Isaac onstage, an easy smile on her face. Isaac reaches for her and Allison takes his hand and presses it to her cheek, flirting. They're so good at this, being intimate with each other, every touch incredibly tender looking and sweet. It makes Lydia feel like a voyeur almost, watching them, how carefully Isaac holds Allison as he lifts her effortlessly over his head, like she weighs nothing. 

Lydia has to hold her breath when they do the lift where Isaac holds her upside down, Allison's toes pointed up at the ceiling. Isaac flips her back up in the span of a second, cradling her against his chest as Allison strokes his cheek and smiles beautifically, full of trust and adoration. The way Isaac looks at her as he puts her down is so loving it's almost painful; he stares at Allison as if she is his whole world, his saviour, his angel in the flesh. Lydia has to wonder how much of it is real; everyone knows Allison is in love with Scott but the chemistry she has with Isaac when they dance together is undeniable.

The piece ends with Isaac kneeling on the stage, his face pressed into her stomach, the skirt of her dress bunched in his fists while Allison towers over him with her arms flung out at her sides, a triumphant smile on her face. The music fades out and after a moment Isaac stands up and Allison reaches up to wind her arms around his neck to embrace him, her whole body pressed tightly against his. He kisses her cheek and reaches down to take her hand before they perform a reverence to an invisible audience and run off stage right together.

The curtain flies down and Boyd blows a kiss at Erica before he jogs onstage. He stands facing the back, his white and gold embroidered shirt and white tights practically glowing against his dark skin. The curtain goes back up and the music starts, Erica tiptoes through the wings to stand next to Lydia so she can watch. The variation Boyd is dancing is only a minute long but it's packed with action, jump combination after jump combination with a few turns in the middle. It flies by, when he's finished Boyd kneels on the stage before standing and bowing.

The curtain comes down and Boyd runs off stage. Erica rolls her shoulders back and walks all the way across the stage, jumping up and down a few times. Past her Lydia can see Aiden waiting in the wings opposite her in just a pair of brown pants doing push-ups and she does a few relevés, trying to ignore her nerves. Onstage Erica has transformed into Kitri, she flings herself across the stage with a saucy smile on her face, she flicks the skirt of her tutu, she blows kisses, she does huge leaps on a diagonal all the way downstage and then turns around and runs all the way upstage to the back corner. She does a series of turns all the way back downstage on the same diagonal, throws her arms up in the air, and runs off stage right as the music ends.

It's Lydia's turn now.

She and Aiden walk across the stage to each other until they meet in the middle. The curtain is down, no one can see them except for Cora, who's waiting in the wings to go on after them. Aiden reaches for both of her hands and Lydia weaves their fingers together. He bends down and presses his forehead to hers and they take a big breath together in unison the way Derek made them practice it.

“We got this,” Aiden says softly. “I've got you.”

“I know,” she whispers, and squeezes his hand. Aiden isn't perfect but he's solid, strong, she knows no matter what happens he’ll always protect her.

He lets go of her and they walk in opposite directions; Lydia moves toward stage left, taking a moment to observe the drop they're using, a dark leafy forest projected onto it. Lydia finds her spot and turns around to face the front and gets into position. The curtain goes up and Lydia only has a moment to register Derek and Marin sitting together in the front row, heads bent together as they talk, and then the music begins.

Lydia dances across the stage, taking her time, getting used to the bright lights that flash across her face as she moves. She nails her pas de chat, her first real jump, sensing Aiden dancing behind her. She continues her jump combination and then goes into her first turn combination, a series of pirouettes towards stage right, and when she comes out of the last turn, her back to the audience, Aiden is right in front of her, his eyes cold, a menacing smile on his face.

Lydia doesn't have to pretend to be afraid as she whirls around and runs stage left, familiar icy panic running up her spine. Aiden grabs her by the arms and she actually stumbles as she gets into fourth position, she can feel him pause a second longer than he's supposed to before he puts his hands on her waist as she rises en pointe. He whips her around for a series of assisted pirouettes; Lydia forces herself to let her center go so she falls off pointe over and over again, trapped between Aiden's palms as he spins her like a doll.

She finally breaks away and runs in a giant circle before throwing her body into the air. Aiden catches her from behind and swings her around before setting her down in front of him. The music slows down and Lydia looks up at him as she lifts her left leg to wrap it around his bare waist. He smirks a little as he reaches down to hold her thigh and she drops backwards, dangling upside down, staring out at the empty theatre and seeing nothing but lights.

He brings her back up and Lydia collapses against his chest, a quick moment to catch her breath before she brings her left leg around into an arabesque and Aiden picks her up with one arm under her legs. She wraps them around his waist and drops back again, used to how it makes her lightheaded by now, and stays loose as Aiden swings her up and throws her into the air. When he catches her Lydia slides down his body until they're chest to chest, his arms wrapped around the backs of her thighs. Aiden's expression finally softens and Lydia feels herself relax against him, remembering to keep her toes pointed as he walks them across the stage.

They breathe in unison, moving like one body, her hands soft on the back of his neck. She can feel the energy buzzing between them, the strength of his body, the feeling of being the center of someone's attention, all of his focus on her, his hands gliding up her back as he sets her down., His fingers find the place where the seamstress ripped out the seam of the white dress and sewed in Velcro and he grips the fabric and pulls - the dress rips right off her body, revealing her red leotard.

He tosses the dress backstage and turns away to do a huge jump combination towards stage right. Lydia goes into her second solo, listening to the sounds of her breath and the music, her body moving automatically, muscle memory, every step executed with razor sharp precision. She feels like she's flying now, this close to the end, running on adrenaline and her sheer love of performing, taking a moment to smile as she sets up for fouettés, commanding the energy onstage, staking her claim to Laura's legacy as she begins to turn.

Her body whips around as she spots, her head the last thing to turn around, her right leg slicing circles in the air. Aiden comes up behind her as she finishes her last turn; she drops to the side as Aiden catches her by the back of her neck and scoops her up to hold her against his chest. He spins and spins with her in his arms before putting her down to do the assisted arabesque, swinging her up and down across the stage. He sets her down before lunging to the right, taking her with him as he goes so Lydia is laid out over his right thigh, arching her back as much as she can because -

 _What are you, a virgin?_

The words echoing inside her head jolt her out of her performance and she looks out at the theatre, the lights so bright it makes her eyes water and in that brilliant wash of light and tears she swears, she can see blue eyes in the back row, watching her.

 _Fuck you_ , she thinks viciously. _Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you._

Aiden pulls her up by the wrists and she moves through the last section of the pas de deux on autopilot, by the time they separate and run to opposite sides of the stage Lydia's lungs are burning, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She doesn't give herself time to hesitate, she runs across the stage to where Aiden is waiting for her. She turns towards the audience as she jumps up and he catches her between her legs and pushes her straight up above his head.

Lydia arches her arms over her head in high fifth and pulls her core in as Aiden wraps his hand around her left ankle. She beams on cue as the music ends with a bang and the curtain goes down. He taps her ankle so she's ready when he drops her, catching her easily by the waist. They don't have time to process their performance, Cora is already walking onstage, her brightly painted lips pressed together, rising up en pointe before doing a few quick echappes.

Lydia runs off stage right with Aiden, he pulls her through the wings and out a side door into a hallway, his eyes feverish. “We did it, you did it! I know the assisted pirouettes started a little late but I really don't think they noticed, it was seriously like a fraction of a second, and we hit the lift at the end - okay, what's going on, why don't you look happy?”

Lydia rubs her hands over her bare arms, feeling a little too naked in just her leotard. “I thought I saw Peter.”

His reaction is instantaneous, his eyes go dark and a muscle in his jaw starts to twitch. “What? When?”

“Towards the end.” Lydia blinks rapidly, her eyes adjusting to the dim romantic lighting of the hallway, illuminated sconces along the gold wallpapered walls making everything glow a soft warm yellow.

He shoves a hand through his hair. “I didn't see anything. Are you sure you saw him?”

She shakes her head, uncertain but unable to shake the feeling of teeth at the back of her neck, a monster’s breath ghosting over her skin. “It was just for a second.”

“Shit,” he exhales. “Look, it probably wasn't him.”

“You don't know that,” she says tightly.

“Fuck, I have to go change, Finstock’s piece is right after Cora.” Aiden looks conflicted. “Do you want to talk to Derek?”

Doubt starts to creep in. She isn't sure she really saw anything, and after all she's seen those eyes reflected back at her in the mirror, glowing in a dark hallway, appearing in her dreams. Of course she would see them now, dancing this piece, the piece he choreographed just for her, his Little Red, his star, his darling.

“You're right,” she concedes. “I'm probably just being paranoid.”

“It's okay.” He leans in and kisses her cheek. “I really have to go change, try not to worry, okay?”

“Okay.” She flashes him a tight smile and Aiden jogs back into the theatre.

Lydia takes the hallway around the back of the theatre until she gets to the door that leads down to the dressing room. All the girls are there except for Cora, waiting to go back onstage for their final bow once the boys’ group piece is finished. Someone has retrieved her white dress already from backstage, she can see it hanging on the costume rack.

Allison spots her and waves her over to their dressing table, a crazed smile on her face. “You got flowers! For someone who isn't your boyfriend Stiles sure acts like it.”

“I did?” Lydia frowns slightly. Stiles is coming tomorrow with Scott, she wasn't expecting him to send her flowers tonight.

“Look, see?” Allison points to the dressing table where Lydia did her makeup earlier. “Aren't they gorgeous?”

Two dozen blood red roses are sitting in a vase at her place on the table in front of the mirror, a white card nestled in between two stems and a cloud of baby’s breath. Lydia reaches for it slowly, a prickly feeling at the back of her neck. She can't explain it but something feels wrong, this isn't like Stiles at all, to send flowers without being there to see her reaction, he's supposed to give them to her after the showcase tomorrow, that's what everyone does, she's sure he must have asked Scott about proper protocol. And how would he even know where to have them delivered?

And then she looks down and her heart slams against her chest like it's trying to escape her body. Written on the front of the card in slick black script are the words _My Little Red._

Lydia unfolds the paper and reads the text inside, a strange buzzing sound rising in her ears, the words floating in front of her vision: _A star is born! Brava, my darling._

It isn't signed, but it doesn't have to be. Only one person has ever called her that.

The card slips from her fingers and floats down to the floor. “Did you see who brought these?” she asks Allison, her voice shaking.

Allison cocks her head. “No, they were already here when I came down. Why, is something wrong?”

Everything blurs in front of her and Lydia is overcome by the sensation of being trapped, her lungs refusing to open. “Just surprised,” she says stupidly. “I'm going to the bathroom.”

She walks away before Allison can respond, stumbling through the dressing room and back up the stairs, she pushes through the door and trips down the hallway, everything in front of her reduced to pinpricks of black and white dots as her chest burns for oxygen. Lydia’s imagined it so many times, Laura Hale walking down this exact hallway and out the backdoor in only her leotard the night she died, that doing it herself feels almost like déjà vu.

The back door of the theatre opens with a bang and Lydia gasps for air, turning around to press her hands against the wall of the building, her eyes prickling with unshed tears, suddenly so nauseous she's sure she's going to throw up. Understanding comes to her with painful clarity, why Laura ran out that night without even changing, how she could turn her back on everyone and run, what must have been going through her head.

Malia was right. It's never going to be over.

Peter can go to New York, Europe, hell, he can go to Antarctica and it won't change anything.

He's never going to let Lydia go. It doesn't matter if she has the performance of a lifetime tomorrow, if she gets into the company, becomes a prima. He’ll get the credit anyway, for discovering her, training her, making her into the dancer she is now. Their names will forever be linked by the showcase, for the rest of her life people will look at her and think, there's the girl Peter Hale made, his Little Red, his protégé, his star.

His darling.

She’ll never be free of him. She was so stupid, to think that just because Derek made him leave that she was safe, that she could move on, separate herself from what he did to her. It's never going to stop, not when he's haunting her, following her career, praising her with words meant to remind her of who she is, who she really is - a girl he trapped in a basement, a girl who fell in the dark, a girl who's soft and weak inside, sick with terror, powerless.

She was nothing before him, a dancer barely keeping up with everyone else, injured and insecure, and now the only thing that makes her special is him - he chose her, he made her, broke her over and over again and he’s never going to let her forget it, he's never going to let her go.

He owns her now, he doesn't even have to be here in person to stake his claim. He's under her skin, inside her head, he's never going to leave her alone. There's no way out. 

Laura understood that. 

The panic makes her breath come short and fast, she beats her hands against the wall and tries to remember how to breathe, how to push through the sensation of icy water filling up her lungs. In the distance someone is saying her name but she can't really hear it, she can't move, she can't do anything but try not to drown as fear crawls up her throat, and then someone is pulling at her arms and light eyes peer down at her and she screams, struggling uselessly as strong hands pin her flailing arms to her sides.

“Lydia, it's okay, it's just me! Lydia, it's Derek!”

She goes limp in his hold, her eyes fluttering open. Derek is hovering over her, his face pale, looking horrified. “What the hell is going on?”

“He was here,” she chokes out frantically. “He's here, he's watching me!”

Derek looks at her like she's losing her mind. “Are you talking about Peter? Lydia, he's in New York, I talked to him this morning.”

She blinks at him, her eyes hot like she's going to cry. “What?”

He makes an impatient noise and checks his watch. “We have to go in for final bows. Why do you think he's watching you?”

She swallows back tears. “He sent me flowers. They were in the dressing room.”

Derek scrubs a hand over his face before gently placing it between her shoulder blades to usher her back inside. “Dammit. I'm sorry, I should've known he’d do something like this.”

She walks down the hallway with him, trying to focus on the reassuring steadiness of his touch. “What do you mean?”

“Peter never liked to share,” Derek says vaguely, opening a side door that leads to backstage. “Look, I promise you, he isn't here, okay? He can't hurt you, now go, before Marin kills us both, you're late, everyone's waiting for you.”

Lydia runs through the wings and gets behind Kira, all the girls are standing in one line while the boys wait onstage. There's an invisible cue Lydia can't see and Cora leads them out onto the stage. The girls who danced solos stand next to the boys who also performed solos and the girls who danced pas de deuxs walk to their partners. Lydia finds Aiden and gets into position slightly in front of him, one of his arms wrapping around her waist.

“What the hell did you go?” he whispers out of the corner of his mouth as they both smile big. “They made us wait for like five minutes.”

“Talking to Derek.” Lydia dips into a curtsy as Aiden bows above her.

She and Aiden both smile and wave at whoever is operating the lighting board in the back of the theatre as if they're standing in front of a standing ovation. They link hands and everyone takes a final bow together, and then it's over, they all drift towards the back of the stage as the curtain comes down a final time. 

Aiden grabs her by the wrist and pulls her away from everyone, towards stage left. “Well?”

“He said Peter's in New York.”

There must be something wrong with the way she says it because he frowns. “Then why do you look so worried?”

“Lydia!” Allison pushes between Danny and Isaac to walk over to her and Aiden. “C’mon, we've got to change. Everything okay?”

Lydia looks between the two of them, and all she can think is, _I can't do it again._

This can't be happening again. This was supposed to be over.

“Yeah,” she says brightly, and reaches for Allison's hand. “Everything's fine.”

Allison chatters animatedly as they go downstairs and Lydia tunes her out, trying to piece apart what Derek said to her. _Peter never liked to share._ Is that what the flowers were about? Peter claiming her from Derek, reminding him that Lydia is his dancer, his darling, his prima? Is he jealous or just petty? Or was it about her, putting her in her place, reminding her that she's nothing without him, that she would have none of this if he hadn't cast her, chosen her?

Lydia takes off her leotard and hangs it up next to her white dress with numb fingers, her body operating on autopilot. She peels off her tights and shoves them into her dance bag, takes her sapphire blue bodycon [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530752422861) out and slips it over her head. She takes off the hairnet and unpins her hair, brushes out the ends so it hangs down her back in a low wavy ponytail. She sits down at the table to take off her lipstick and stops, frozen at the sight of her reflection - the girl in the mirror is a ghost, a stranger, all big eyes that are glassy with anguish and lips painted candy apple red.

 _You wanted this_ , she thinks cruelly. _You stupid, stupid girl._

Once all the girls are changed, costumes properly hung, false eyelashes removed and bright lipstick scrubbed off, they all leave together and walk down the block to the parking garage. They decide to split into two groups, [Kira](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530585942361) goes with Lydia and [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530585416999) and [Cora](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530750207799) volunteers to drive [Malia](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530751224654) and [Erica](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530753123879). The restaurant is only fifteen minutes away, some place with management that's friendly with the Hale family, Cora explains as they're loading up their dance bags in Allison's SUV and Cora's Charger.

Allison does valet parking when they get to the restaurant and Lydia steps carefully out of the car onto shaking legs. She's nauseous again, she hasn't eaten since lunch and she can feel Peter’s hand closing around her throat, like that time he yelled at her in rehearsal, demanding that she make him fall in love with her and how all she could think was _please, please, please_ , because no one was coming to save her and all she could do was placate him, submit, make herself small and pliable as terror wrapped around the base of her spine, paralyzingly her.

The restaurant is dark inside, very masculine, dim lighting and dark painted walls and gleaming cherry wood. A hostess in a black cocktail dress, so thin that Lydia can see every bone in her spine, leads them to the back of the restaurant, to a table that's been reserved for them in a private alcove, a bottle of champagne sitting inexplicably in the middle of the table between two flickering votive candles. Lydia sinks into a chair in between Allison and Malia, taking the glass of champagne Cora offers her from across the table. 

Once everyone has a glass Cora holds hers up and they all mimic her with a bit of shock that the restaurant is allowing this. “The owners knew my parents,” Cora explains airily. She smiles lazily, the champagne glass held loosely in her fingertips. “The level eight girls come here every year. It's tradition.”

“We fucking did it bitches!” Erica exclaims, and they all laugh and clink glasses.

Lydia sips at her champagne, feeling warmth drip down into her stomach, remembering a different night with the taste of champagne on her tongue, Stiles sitting across from her at Firefly Garden, her foot brushing his under the table, hooking up in his Jeep after he asked her to prom and how exhilarating it felt, to be normal, cherished by a boy, a girl who wasn't afraid for a little while.

She knows now, that that girl isn't real, she's just a fantasy. Lydia will never be free like that, it's only an illusion, a magic trick. She could have been like that, had that, but she didn't choose it, she chose ballet and Peter and killing herself to make him want her, love her, give her everything he promised - stardom, fame, a spot in the company.

She was so stupid. He never loved her, she was never special to him. She was just a dancer, a girl he could manipulate and scare into compliance, a body for him to use and discard for his art.

And he's never going to let her forget it.

Allison takes a buttered roll from the bread basket Kira is passing around and puts it onto Lydia's plate before taking one for herself. Lydia stares down at it, her mouth watering. She imagines eating it, how good it would taste, noticing how the butter gleams appealingly against the bread’s soft golden toasted surface, and then she can feel it again, hands on her throat, icy panic in her lungs, some kind of internal alarm ringing in her ears. She picks up her champagne glass and tosses half of it back in one gulp.

“I'm going to the bathroom,” she says quietly, and slips out of her chair before Allison can offer to go with her.

She stumbles along the side of the restaurant until she finds the alcove to the bathrooms. To her relief the bathrooms are private, there's an open one available just for her, like a minor miracle, and she locks the heavy wooden door as a sour taste rises up the back of her throat. She stumbles over to the toilet and hunches over it, one hand reaching back to make sure her ponytail isn't in the way. She gags but nothing comes up but a clear string of bile. Her stomach cramps angrily, empty, and after a minute, when it's clear nothing else is coming up, she flushes and walks over to the sink.

She's pale under her foundation, her head a little fuzzy as the champagne kicks in, and she thinks about Peter's hands on her face in her first individual rehearsal with him, how gently he touched her, like a lover, fingers trailing feather light down the side of her face, how he seemed almost in awe of her, a little doll for him to play with.

 _You're so small - so breakable,_ he had told her. She didn't know then, that he saw it as an invitation, to test her, see how much she could take. He told her he could make her a prima one day.

And she believed him.

_Look at you, my darling. I'm going to make you a star._

Isn't that what she wanted? To be a star? Why does it matter the cost, the price measured and paid with her blood and vomit and tears? It's just another sacrifice, she knows that, where's the girl who was willing to do anything for this, tear her body apart from the inside out to dance on that stage? Who is she now? She doesn't even look like herself anymore, too thin but not in a chic way, it makes her look haunted, fragile, her eyes too big in her face, like a frightened animal.

 _You're supposed to be happy_ , she thinks furiously.

This was supposed to make her happy.

When she gets back to the table their waitress has appeared, bent down next to Malia, pointing to something on the menu. When it's her turn Lydia blindly orders a pasta dish and ignores Allison's look of surprise. She plays with her napkin and pretends to listen as the girls talk about who they think will be at the showcase tomorrow, what companies are hiring, who wants to go where. 

Lydia doesn't care, all she's ever wanted is HBC and if she gets in she's starting to understand that's it's only because she's a pawn in some neverending power struggle between Peter and Derek, she's a toy Peter wants, a toy Derek took from him, because Lydia told Derek what he did to her. Lydia looks to her right at Malia, remembering that Peter told her that if she revealed her parentage to anyone he'd make her regret it.

Lydia should've known better than to think he would really walk away just because Derek told him to.

“Hey,” Allison whispers next to her. “Are you okay? You're being really quiet.”

“I'm nervous about tomorrow,” Lydia murmurs back, which isn't a lie.

“It'll be okay,” Allison says sympathetically. “Tonight went well, right?”

Lydia stares at Allison for a moment, shocked at this, that she still remembers how to pretend, that she's able convince her friends that everything is fine, even now. She almost does it, tells Allison who the flowers were really from, confess that she's afraid, tells Allison that she can't shake the paranoia that Peter's somehow watching her, following her, waiting to strike.

Their food comes and the moment passes, Lydia smiles tightly at Allison and looks down at her plate. Apparently she ordered pesto fettuccine with chicken without even being aware of it. She winds a fork around a noodle and brings it to her mouth, sucking slowly on the pesto sauce. The other girls are all laughing, reminiscing, telling stories about that one class back in level six or that time with that teacher when so and so, excetra, excetra. 

Lydia can't focus on it and she feels a wave of revulsion, at herself, at Peter. This is supposed to be for her, her moment, and all she can think about is him. She digs her nails into her thigh and tries to focus, stay in the moment, all the while slicing her noodles to shreds with the side of her fork instead of eating them, only taking bites when Allison catches her out of the corner of her eye. Lydia gives up and finishes her champagne instead, feeling the bubbles rise inside her like she could just float away. When everyone's eaten the manager of the restaurant, elegant in a black suit and bow tie, comes to their table followed by a small chocolate cake with a goddamn sparkler stuck in it.

Cora flushes, allows the manager to kiss her cheek and thanks him profusely, dropping her head when he tells her she looks just like Laura did at her age before informing her that their meal has been comped, it's an honor, the Hale legacy, blah blah bah, while Cora stands very still, elegant and restrained as he goes on and on, even though she must be embarrassed. The cake is sliced and doled out on shiny porcelain plates. Lydia's mouth waters against her will as she watches Erica eat a huge bite and moan, licking her lips. Lydia cuts off a microscopic bite and lets it dissolve on her tongue, so sweet it makes her want to cry. She mashes up the frosting with her fork and licks the tines, surreptitiously sweeping little pieces of the cake into her napkin as the other girls eat.

Finally dinner is over, everyone leaves the table and follows Cora back outside. They all hug on the sidewalk as the valets bring the cars around; they decide Cora will take Malia back to the loft and Erica and Kira will go with Allison and Lydia. Lydia sits in the passenger seat of the rental SUV, Erica and Kira in the back, as Allison drives away from the curb. Lydia stares out her window as Allison drives them back to Beacon Hills, watching the sky go from a dusky twilight to a deep midnight blue. In the backseat Kira and Erica are watching a recording of last year’s showcase on Erica's phone, their heads almost pressed together as the glow from the screen illuminates their faces.

“Hey,” Allison says softly. “Are you sure you're okay? You didn't eat dinner.”

Lydia flicks her gaze towards the backseat and gives Allison an irritated look, and Allison frowns. “What? You didn't.”

“I'm just stressed out about tomorrow.”

“Lydia, you're going to be great, you don't have anything to worry about.”

“Everyone's going to be watching me,” she says quietly. “Because he picked me.”

Allison sighs. “Yeah, and and everyone who sees me is going to be thinking, that's Kate Argent’s niece. You can't worry about what other people think or it'll ruin it for you. You don't deserve that.”

“Yeah,” Lydia murmurs, but maybe she does deserve it because this is what she wanted and there's a reason she didn't tell anyone about Peter until she didn't have a choice anymore.

She wanted this. She brought this upon herself, the same way she chose Jackson even though she knew he could be cold, mean, didn't care for her the way he should have, let her fall right through his hands.

“It's going to be okay,” Allison says, and Lydia nods, her throat tightening.

When they get to her house Allison drops her off in the driveway. Lydia says goodbye to her, Erica, and Kira, grabs her dance bag out of the trunk and goes inside. The lights are off but the living room is illuminated by the television, her mother is laying on the couch watching The Real Housewives, an almost empty bottle of Riesling on the coffee table.

“Hey baby,” her mom says, rolling over to face her, giving her a sleepy smile. “How did it go?”

“Fine,” Lydia says, lying automatically.

“Did you get your flowers?”

Light bursts behind Lydia's eyelids, champagne crawling up her throat. “What?”

Her mother pushes herself up so she's leaning against the arm of the couch. “Your choreographer called the office this morning, you didn't tell me Peter went to New York! He wanted to send you flowers to make sure you knew he was thinking of you but he couldn't remember the name of the florist the company uses. Did you get them?”

Her head is buzzing, Lydia rests her hand on the back of the couch, lightheaded. “Yeah. Yeah, I got them. They were beautiful.”

Her mother reaches up and pats her hand. “I'm so happy for you, honey. You've worked so hard for this, and to be in Peter Hale’s piece - you'll be all everyone will be talking about tomorrow!”

Lydia swallows. “Thanks Mom. I'm going to go up, I need to shower.”

“Okay baby, I love you. I'm going to the office in the morning, Allison's giving you a ride up there in the afternoon, right?”

“Right,” Lydia says faintly. “Love you too.”

She takes her bags upstairs and drops them in her room, kicks off her heels and stumbles into the bathroom. She barely makes it to the toilet before all the champagne is coming up along with the few noodles she ate for dinner. Lydia reaches blindly into the shower and turns the water on to mask the sound of it, coughing bitterly until her stomach stops contracting. She rest her cheek on the cool porcelain seat for a moment before she wipes her mouth with a wad of toilet paper and flushes. She peels off her dress and stands naked in front of the mirror, wincing at what she sees.

Tear tracks mar her heavy stage foundation, her cream eyeliner is smudged, and her lips look raw, and a wave of disgust rolls through her.

She thought she was changing, she thought she was getting better. She was supposed to move past this, what happened to her, she was supposed to be trying. But it's all just a lie, she's still the same girl she was a few months ago, someone weak, someone afraid, someone who let a man break her and didn't speak up until it was too late. 

She's supposed to be a star, she's supposed to be loveable, irresistible, she's supposed to make everyone want her, fall in love with her.

Who could love a person like this?

She uses her mother's cold cream to take off her makeup, washes her face with a brown sugar scrub and gets into the shower. The water's gone cold by now, she shivers under the spray as she washes her hair and works conditioner through it. She washes every inch of her skin, trying to rid herself of the phantom feeling of Peter’s touch, his fingers brushing over her face, her throat, teeth at the back of her neck.

He called her mother. He had her mother make sure Lydia got flowers from him. _So you knew he was thinking of you._

 _Message received_ , she thinks dully as she gets out of the shower and wraps a towel around herself. She knows she should try to wind down, go to bed soon so she gets enough rest for tomorrow but her heart is racing and her chest is tight to the point of being painful. She needs to calm down, she needs to find a way to compartmentalize, to push Peter to be back of her head so she can sleep well, have the performance of her life tomorrow so she can get into the company.

She has to get into the company. It's what she wants still, isn't it? To be a star, a prima for one of the most prestigious companies in the country. Even if it's only because of Peter, elevated into stardom by a madman even if she's the only one who really knows what it was like, to be trapped by him, terrorized, torn between desperately wanting to please him and being so afraid of him sometimes she could hardly move.

Laura knew.

Laura couldn't take it anymore, it's what Cora keeps saying.

Derek, sitting in his office the day he kicked her out of class. _Some dancers can't take it._

But Lydia can. Isn't that what she's been trying to prove? That they can drop her, hurt her, make her life a living hell and she’ll survive, because she has to, she has to take it, she’ll take anything, if it means becoming a principal dancer.

MIT isn't going anywhere but ballet, that has a clock on it, she’ll only be able to dance for so long and that's if she manages not to get another injury. She’ll never have another chance at this.

She can take it. She has to take it. Even if it means never escaping Peter, not really. She doesn't have a choice, it's the price she has to pay, to get what she's wanted since she was ten years old.

She remembers Malia, drunk and sad, pressing up against her in the kitchen of the loft. _You're so lucky. You're going to get out._

She was supposed to get out. Peter was supposed to let her go.

Lydia smacks her hand against the wall. She has to stop thinking in circles or she's going to drive herself insane, as if this isn't insanity already: her mind a trap, taunting her with images of blue eyes and shiny white teeth, her body betraying her, stomach refusing food, her hands trembling as she pads down the hallway and into her room. She has to do something, she has to snap herself out of this before she panics and does something stupid. There's too much glass in her room, it would be too easy, to let her thoughts take her to a dark place she can't come back from, shatter something just to see it break, the way Peter broke her, over and over again.

In the back of her head she knows something is wrong with her, the way you can just feel it, when something in your head isn't working right. Her thoughts have never run together like this before, racing at a manic pace, reality and her nightmares blending together and she doesn't know how to make it stop, the only thing she knows how to do is push herself to physical exhaustion, until she doesn't have the energy to think at all.

She ties her damp hair up in a ponytail and changes into a ballet bra and Nike pro shorts, pulls on a muscle [tank](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530927793869) and unrolls her yoga mat. She opens up her laptop and puts a playlist on before swinging her arms around a few times. She tries to let her mind blank out as she turns her head from side to side to stretch her neck, rolls her shoulders, walks her hands down to the floor and lets herself dangle upside down. She slowly brings herself down into a plank and holds it before lowering herself to the floor. She pushes back into child's pose and lets her forehead rest against her mat, hating herself when tears leak out of the corners of her eyes.

So he sent her flowers. Isn't that what she wanted? To be adored, to be showered with roses? She's supposed to feel happy, she's supposed to feel proud. She did it, she got cast in the most important piece in the showcase and she's made it here, to this moment, she fought and bled for this, she earned this.

So why does she feel so bad?

She pushes back into downward dog, sniffing furiously. Everything she's ever wanted is right in front of her, she wanted this, she did this to herself, what the hell is she crying for? She's supposed to be stronger than this.

She flips over onto her back and works her abs until it hurts to breathe. She covers her eyes with her hands, the sound of her heart too loud in her ears. She wonders if this is what Laura felt like, right before she did it, like her thoughts were dragging her in circles, like there was no safe place left, not even in her own mind. Lydia thinks about the day she fainted in partnering, Scott walking her back up to her room from Nurse McCall’s office.

_You could die, you get that, right?_

She hadn't really, not at the time, not the way she does right now. She's never felt this before, something great and black looming over her, something bad, something dangerous.

Peter, standing in the dark basement studio listening to her panic, waiting until she was too afraid to think straight before he scooped her up and put his mouth to her ear. She could have fallen wrong, she could've broken an ankle, she could have decided to try to run away and crashed into the mirror, she could have sliced herself to shreds for him.

He could've done anything to her. 

Knowing he's in New York does nothing to counteract the feeling that his threat still stands. The last time she saw Peter she was on the floor having a panic attack, cowering behind Aiden's legs and she curls over on her yoga mat, choking on the memory, how he would have let her fall the first time they tried the lift, how he dismissed her tears and her panic with an impatient wave, because _what you feel, what you think, it means nothing to me._

She's nothing. She's just a body, he taught her that, how could she forget it?

How she feels doesn't matter. It never did.

Lydia gets up, a strange numb kind of calm settling over her. She rolls up her mat and puts it away, turns off her lights and leaves her phone on her nightstand. She walks to the bathroom and brushes her teeth so she doesn't have to do it later, turns out the light and goes back to her room. She takes her Nikes out of her bag and laces them up, quietly goes downstairs and grabs the house key from the dish and slips it in the waistband of her shorts.

She just needs to clear her head. She'll go for a walk, let herself calm down, and then she’ll go to bed. She wipes angrily at her face as she slips outside and shuts the front door quietly because girls who are just bodies aren't supposed to cry. She's not supposed to have feelings, she's supposed to be nothing but a body that's been sculpted and stretched and primed for stardom.

She wanders through her neighborhood, thinking about Laura Hale driving to her parents’ house to meet her death. Laura, her idol, the girl who couldn't take it anymore and how can Lydia really be surprised at this, that she's ended up here, when she deliberately followed Laura's path, trained with her choreographer, studied everything Laura ever did onstage?

Lightning cracks across the sky and Lydia jumps. She's lost track of time, she's wandered blocks from her house by now. She shivers, realizing too late that the temperature has dropped. She crosses her arms over her chest as she walks, trying to find something to hold onto, something that's going to get her through the night. Something to remind her that she wanted this, that getting to the showcase, dancing in Peter's piece is a good thing but all she can feel is a horrible numbness undercut by nauseating dread.

There's a crash of thunder and she jumps, looking up at the dark sky, and the heavens open up, rain pouring down. Within seconds she's soaked to the bone, shocked by it, her clothes and bare skin instantly drenched. She turns around, she needs to go home, and in the distance she hears a sudden growl. Her heart stutters in her chest and she thinks, _run_ and then it happens again, in the distance, too far to see clearly but she's sure of it - blue eyes are watching her, glowing in the dark night.

She lets out a panicked sob and turns in the other direction, the slap of her Nikes against the wet pavement echoing in her ears as she starts to run. She thinks about the wolf from her dream, peeling her skin off her body with its teeth and her breath comes in short tight bursts, she has to run, she has to get away, she can't let it catch her. Every paranoid through in her head collides and she's sure if she stops running she’ll be caught, she’ll be eaten, she’ll die. She wants to run forever, until she's free of this but there's no safe place to go, no one coming to save her, no one who knows where she is and no phone to make a call demanding rescue. She’s all alone in the dark with a monster who may only be real inside her head but what does that matter, it can still hurt her, eat her alive from the inside out until she's nothing but bones.

She stops suddenly, skidding on the sidewalk in front of a blue Jeep parked in an otherwise empty driveway. Lydia looks up at the house, her mouth opening in surprise as she realizes where she is.

Her body took her to Stiles’ house.

Another crash of thunder makes her jump and Lydia imagines a wolf waiting for her, licking its chops, watching her with glowing eyes and she runs across the driveway, falls up the front steps and throws herself at the door. She smacks the doorbell with the heel of her hand and bangs on the door with one fist, gasping for air, icy cold with panic. After a minute the porch light turns on and Stiles opens the door wearing a pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt with the sleeves cut off, his hair sticking up, face creased with sleep.

He takes her in and Lydia steps back when she sees the look of total confusion on his face. What is wrong with her, why did she think she could show up here in the middle of the night soaking wet having some kind of nervous breakdown, what is she doing?

“Lydia?” He looks bewildered, standing in the doorway so he doesn't get wet. “What's wrong, what are you doing here?”

“I'm sorry,” she whispers, and starts to stumble back away from him.

“What the hell are you doing?” he shouts, reaching out to grab her wrist. “You're soaking wet, did you” - he looks out at the driveway where the only car parked there is his - “did you _walk_ here?”

“I'm sorry,” she whispers again, shivering violently. “I couldn't sleep. I just wanted to clear my head but” - 

Her eyes fill with tears and she ducks her head, cold and afraid and humiliated. Stiles slides his hand up to grip her arm, looking exasperated. “Get your ass inside, right now, before you get hypothermia,” he orders.

She shuffles through the doorway, her wet shoes squeaking against the floor. “Don't move,” Stiles says sternly, and disappears down the hallway. 

She wraps her arms around herself, so cold, her teeth chattering as she shivers, and a minute later he returns with a large beach towel. She stands still and lets him wrap it around her as she silently cries, tears sliding down cold cheeks. Stiles makes a helpless noise, reaching around to squeeze water out of her ponytail and he's so gentle it hurts, she swallows back a sob as he uses the back of his hand to wipe her tears away.

“You need to tell me what's wrong,” he says softly.

“I can't,” she chokes out. “Stiles, I can't.”

“Yes you can,” he says firmly. “Lydia, you can't show up here in the middle of the night like this and not talk to me.”

She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. “I don't think I can do it tomorrow,” she confesses, her voice cracking.

He picks up her hands and rubs them between his. “Lydia, what are you talking about?”

“I don't know if I can take it anymore,” she whimpers, shame hot in her chest.

His hands close over her wrists and she looks down, watching him circle his fingers around them, his hands shockingly warm on her skin. “What do you mean?”

She feels sick, shaking in his hands, reduced to a trembling body and tears that won't stop and she doesn't know how to make him understand. “I can still feel Peter everywhere, like he's watching me, and I was never good enough for him, I was never enough and now everyone is going to see me and they’ll look at me and all they’ll see is him, this person he made me into. When I look in the mirror I don't even see myself, I see this person he wanted me to be or maybe I just thought it was who I had to be to get through it and I thought I could take it but I don't think I can anymore and it's never going to stop, it's never going to be over and I can't, I can't” -

Stiles yanks her against him and wraps his arms around her, one of his hands cupping the back of her head. “I see you,” he says firmly. “It's okay. I see you, Lydia.”

She starts to sob, pressing her face into his shirt. “I don't even know who I am anymore.”

“I know you,” he says gently. “I know who you are. I know you've wanted this since you were a kid and I know you've been through hell these past few months and I know you're afraid of not being perfect tomorrow but you're still the same person, Lydia. He didn't take that away from you, no one can take that away from you.”

She clings to him, clutching his shirt in her hands. “What if I can't do it?”

“Lydia,” he says carefully. “Do you _want_ to?”

She lifts her head in surprise. “What?”

He frowns slightly and cups her cheek. “You don't have to do this, you know that right? I know you love to dance but this - killing yourself over this, getting yourself so worked up that you're here crying - is it really worth it?”

It's her dream, of course it's worth it. She hasn't gotten this far for nothing, she won't let herself quit. She'd rather die than walk away.

“I have to,” she says fervently. “I have to go on tomorrow Stiles, I've waited my entire life for this.”

He sighs, his thumb stroking over her cheekbone. “Okay. Then you really need to get some rest. Come on, I'll drive you home.”

She flinches, looking away. “I don't think I'll be able to sleep.”

A thoughtful expression crosses his face. “What if I was there?”

“Really?” she breathes, too wrecked to feel embarrassed at how much she wants that.

“Yeah, of course, if it would help you sleep.”

She sighs and drops her head to his shoulder. “I'd like that,” she confesses.

“Okay.” He kisses the top of her head. “Let me just grab my stuff.”

She waits in the foyer while he runs up to his room. He comes down a minute later wearing a pair of beat up Adidas, his backpack slung over one shoulder and a pillow tucked under his arm. When she raises an eyebrow at it he laughs, a little sheepish. “Can't sleep without it.”

“You don't have to do this,” she says, suddenly feeling guilty.

“Uh, sleeping in the same bed with my girlfriend - I mean my, you know” -

She rises up on her toes and winds her arms around his neck. “I know.”

He exhales and wraps his free arm around her. “What I meant is, it's not exactly a hardship.”

She lets herself fall into him, feeling him breathe against her, and the panic settles a little. He grabs his keys and leads her to the Jeep, Lydia spreads the towel over the passenger seat before getting in so she doesn't get the upholstery wet. He holds her hand over the gearshift the entire way back to her house, walks up the driveway with his arm tight around her shoulders. Lydia lets them into her house with one finger pressed against her lips and Stiles nods and follows her quietly up the stairs and into her room.

She shuts her door gently, suddenly self conscious that she's half naked and soaking wet. “I'm just going to change into dry clothes,” she whispers.

“Okay.” Stiles gives her a soft smile as he kicks off his shoes and tosses his pillow onto her bed.

Lydia gets a long sleeved pajama top and pair of polka dot printed [boxers](https://www.fashmates.com/looks-detail/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530928086560) out of her dresser and quickly changes into them, still shivering. When she turns around Stiles is sitting on the edge of the bed, looking down at his hands. She walks to him and he looks up, reaching out to brush her waist with his fingertips. “Ready?”

She nods and he crawls up the bed to pull back the duvet cover before holding his hand out to her. “C’mere.”

She gets under the covers next to him and Stiles pulls them up to her chin before sliding one of his arms under her shoulders. Lydia curls into him and rests her head on his chest. She starts to shake, she breathes shallowly against him as her body becomes wracked by tremors, her hands sliding under the hem of his shirt to grip his hip bones to ground herself against it.

“Lydia,” Stiles says worriedly. “Hey, I'm here, it's okay. What is it?”

“Peter called me things sometimes,” she whispers, turning her head to the side so her cheek is pressed against his chest, her head under his chin.

His arm tighten around her, pulling her flush against him. “Bad things?”

“Not always.” Peter’s hands on her face, _look at you, my darling_. “He sent me flowers tonight. In the card he called me his darling.”

Stiles makes a disgusted noise. “Creepy much?”

“I dream about him sometimes,” she confesses. “He comes in through the window.”

“He can't hurt you,” Stiles reassures her. “I'm here, I won't let anyone hurt you.”

“Stiles,” she gasps, the breath caught in her chest, her heart hammering painfully. 

“What?” he ask, so gentle. “Hey, what?”

She opens her mouth and she can't stop herself, words start tumbling out of her mouth and she's babbling, telling him about the wolf and the eyes and the way it feels to be trapped in the dark, knowing that she could trip and break her neck and Peter would let her because it doesn't matter if she's hurt because she's just a body for him to use and she's so afraid all the time and nothing makes it better, she can starve herself and run away and he’ll still be watching her, waiting for her and she starts crying again, hysterical little noises she tries to muffle into his shirt but Stiles won't let her hide, he rolls her onto her back and hovers over her, his hands framing her face.

“Oh Lydia.” He says her name like a prayer. “Lydia, hey, look at me.”

She turns her face into the pillow, shaking her head. Stiles cups her cheeks and drops kisses over her closed eyes, her forehead, the bridge of her nose and it's too much, she wants him to be closer and simultaneously far away, where he can't see her like this, a girl in pieces.

“Okay,” Stiles whispers, and carefully settles over her, not giving her his weight, just blanketing her body enough so he's covering her like a shield. “Okay.”

“I'm not crazy,” she says thickly. "Please don't tell me I'm crazy."

“Hey.” He noses at her face until she's forced to look at him, his amber eyes soft in the dim light. “I don't think you're crazy,” he says firmly. 

“Okay,” she whispers.

Stiles stretches out next to her, their sides pressed together. “Here,” he whispers, and encourages her to turn over so her back is pressed against his chest. He slings one arm around her waist and slides his hand up her shirt, palming her ribs. She sighs, trying to let herself relax against him, the comfort of his warm body, the beat of his heart against her back.

“Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

She swallows, her throat tight. “Will you still want me after the showcase tomorrow?”

He leans over her, reaching out to cup her chin. “Seriously?”

She shrugs and tries to look away but he catches her face and kisses her instead. “Of course I will,” he whispers.

She blinks up at him. “Would you want me if I wasn't a dancer?”

Stiles gives her an incredulous look. “Lydia, I’d want you no matter what you did, okay? I love that you dance because _you_ love it, but if you wanted to quit and go to MIT, or take a year off and figure things out, I wouldn't care, I just - I want _you_. Just you.”

She doesn't know what to do so she tips her head up, lips pursed, and he bends down and kisses her so softly it make her ache. “I want you too,” she whispers against his mouth. “Wherever I end up.”

“Good.” Stiles grins and it's like seeing a light in the darkness, shining just for her, guiding her home. “Now that that's settled I really think you should try to get some sleep.” 

He stretches out next to her, his arm going back around her waist, and Lydia reaches down and finds his fingers. He clasps her hand loosely, his feet tangling with hers under the covers. Lydia sighs and lets her eyes drift shut, exhausted all of a sudden, feeling Stiles breathe against her.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, stroking her thumb over the back of his hand. “I'm sorry for coming over like that.”

Stiles brushes his lips against her neck. “You don't have to apologize.”

She sighs, too tired to fight him. “Okay.”

“It's okay, really.” He squeezes her hand. “Try to sleep, okay? Big day tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Lydia snuggles back against him. “You're coming with Scott, right?”

“Yeah, of course. Wouldn't miss it for anything.”

Lydia closes her eyes, thinking about tomorrow, pouring everything she has inside of herself out on the stage, being judged by people who will look at her and think of Laura, of Peter. But Stiles will be there, just for her, and it's enough for now to make the fear recede. She melts into the mattress and lets him rub her back, murmur soft wordless sounds in the dark, until she's finally able to let go enough to fall asleep.


	30. swan song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally made it to the showcase!! Hugs and kisses to all of you for sticking with this beast for so long, thank you for being willing to come on this crazy ride with me <3

[Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530928086560) wakes up slow, her body heavy with sleep and strangely warm. When she blinks her eyes open she realizes it's because sometime during the night she and Stiles shifted, he's stretched out on his back and Lydia's curled into his side, her right leg wrapped around his thigh. His arm is around her waist, his right hand splayed low on her stomach under her shirt and Lydia can feel a warm pulse of heat in her abdomen where his palm is pressed against her skin. She lifts her head up to squint at the clock; it's a little after nine, which means she's slept an hour later than usual and her mother is already at work.

She sighs sleepily and drops her head down so it's rested on Stiles’ shoulder, the fabric of his shirt soft under her cheek. Sometime in the night he must have kicked off his sweatpants because her feet brush against his bare calf. She lets her eyes drift shut and slides her arm across his stomach, and falls back asleep.

The next time she wakes up it's to fingers brushing against the curve of her hip, little waves of warm syrupy pleasure spreading out over her skin. She shifts a little closer to press her face into his throat, feeling the beat of his pulse against her cheek. “Hey,” she murmurs, her voice coming out scratchy.

His fingers creep just under the waistband of her shorts. “Morning.”

She reaches down and pulls them over her hips, feeling it when Stiles inhales sharply. “How're you feeling?” he murmurs, throaty and low.

She kicks her shorts off and twists so her hips are flat on the bed, naked below the waist under the covers. “Better.”

He lifts his head up and turns so she's forced to look up at him, his eyes soft but there's worry there too. “You sure?”

She doesn't want to think about last night, how every fear she ever had crawled through her brain until nothing felt real but the memory of broken bones and teeth and vomit and how she knew in the back of her head that there was a very real chance she was going to die because no one can be that scared and not do something stupid.

Lydia shivers like she can shake the memory out of her body; she just wants to be here, safe next to Stiles in bed, his fingers sliding into the crease of her hip. She wants to feel good, to be reminded that she can feel good, that her body can offer her more than pain.

Her mouth is too dry, she wets her lips and watches something in his expression flicker as his eyes drop down to follow the path of her tongue.

“I feel a little better,” she clarifies.

He rolls them over slowly so she's stretched out on her back. Stiles hovers over her, coming down on his left arm as she catches him in the cradle of her hips, letting her knees fall open as his right hand slides up her thigh. Her hands go to the hem of his shirt and pull, and Stiles pushes up enough to peel it over his head before leaning over her again.

“Can I make you feel a lot better?” he whispers fervently. “I just want to make you feel good, I'll make you feel so good Lydia. Can I?”

She blinks up at him, remembering that morning at the lake house, his face haloed in sunlight, those long fingers tapping away at his keyboard. She's wanted him for so long, even when she couldn't admit it, and now he's here, in her bed, looking at her with big eyes that are dark with arousal and that's all it takes for her to go soft, her thighs suddenly trembling as she lets herself melt into the heat of his body trapping her against the mattress, desire flowing through her as she slides her hands over his waist and scratches her fingernails gently against his back.

“Okay,” she whispers back. She's too tired to play coy, to flirt, she knows what she wants and all she has to do is acknowledge it. For once she wants to let it be easy, let him give her whatever he wants to offer, live in the simplicity of soft morning light and white sheets and Stiles.

She's safe, nothing bad can happen to her here when she's bathed in warm sunlight and shielded by his body, his hand coming back to her hip to run his thumb over her iliac crest in reassuring strokes.

He gives her a sleepy smile and drops his head down to brush his lips under her jaw. She tilts her head back, letting her eyes drift shut as he kisses down her neck, making her shiver again but in a good way this time. She draws her hands up his back, feeling her way up lean muscle that broadens out to strong shoulders. His hand slides in between her legs and she lets out a breathy sigh, strong sure fingers slowly parting her open. He moves his fingers in long gentle strokes and her breath catches, her body tensing as little shocks of pleasure run through her. She can feel her heart rate pick up and she arches up into him as he rubs his fingertips against her.

She can feel him hard against her hip, separated just by the fabric of his boxers. She shifts restlessly underneath him, whimpering as he drops kisses over her closed eyelids. His fingers slip inside her and Lydia gasps in surprise, her eyes flying open. He's staring down at her, his expression warm but also a little sharp, she can feel his hips twitching like he's trying to hold himself back and suddenly she's wide awake, the tension between their bodies pulling taut.

Lydia rolls her hips and gasps wordlessly at the sudden build in pressure, his thumb rubbing determined circles against her. His fingers curl inside of her and her mouth drops open, looking up at him helplessly as she moves her hips faster to match him. Stiles rocks against her, his hand moving in a steady rhythm as he watches her face, like he's trying to catalog her every reaction. Her breath starts to come in short sharp pants as her stomach contracts, her body opening up to him as his fingers push into her relentlessly. She clings to him, shoving her hips up mindlessly, chasing that heat, that promise of more, more, more, because it's not enough, she needs him everywhere, she needs to come, she _needs_ him.

His thumb speeds up as his fingers curl inside of her, rubbing her in dizzying circles, and her eyes widen as she looks at him, trapped under his gaze. 

“Stiles,” she gasps, feeling it really come on, waves of heat rolling through her as she pumps her hips.

He stares down at her, lips parted, a fascinated expression on his face as she moans, unable to stop herself, all her muscles tensing, the pressure gradually becoming unbearable. She gasps and gasps, unable to get enough breath to beg so she rolls her hips frantically, clenching down around his fingers. His hips stutter against hers and then Stiles is pushing a third finger into her and she can't control herself anymore, she slams her hips up as his fingers twist inside of her and she cries out helplessly as she starts to come, frantically pumping her hips as it rolls through her spine, making her writhe under him. Stiles drops his head to her shoulder, his hips pushing against her as she rides it out.

“Lydia,” he gasps out, turning his head to the side to catch his mouth on hers, teeth grazing over her lips. “Lydia.”

His cheeks are flushed, eyes a little glassy, looking at her like he's falling apart, like he needs her just as much as she needs him. His fingers are still inside her and when Lydia squeezes around them they both cry out. She rolls her hips again and something inside him seems to break, Stiles rubs up against her and thrusts his fingers into her, hard, and she arches back, spreading her hands over his thighs to hold his body against hers.

“That feels so good,” she breathes out, and comes again on a long sigh, dissolving into waves of heat that make her boneless. 

His hips rock into hers and then he exhales sharply, rutting against her as his eyes squeeze shut. Stiles withdraws his fingers and shifts so he’s lined up right against her and Lydia lets out a shocked gasp because she's stimulated to the point of being over sensitive and he's so hard against her and the pressure is insane, she wraps her legs around his waist and rolls her hips along with him. Stiles slides one hand up her thigh and presses his mouth to her throat as he rocks against her, their bodies pressed so tightly together that she can feel him everywhere. She feels drunk on him, moaning shamelessly because there's no one to hear her but him and she's fallen off that cliff into total pleasure, where nothing matters but feeling, sensation, getting as close to him as she possibly can, trapping him between her thighs so she can stay here like this with him forever.

“Lydia,” he groans against her skin, his fingers suddenly gripping her thigh tightly. 

She slides her hands over his ass to hold his hips, encouraging him to keep going as she shudders against him, everything dissolving as the pressure of his body pushing against hers breaks her into pieces and she lets out a loud cry of satisfaction as Stiles grunts softly and comes in his boxers, shivering in her arms as she strokes his back. He sighs, reaching up to slide his fingers into her hair as he lifts up off of her.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and laughs giddily, flopping over onto his side as he cups the back of her head.

She grins and stretches out next to him, her body buzzing with warmth. “Hey.”

He shifts a little and winces. “I should probably go clean up.”

“Want some help?” She reaches down for the hem of her shirt and yanks it over her head.

Stiles’ mouth drops open as he nods dumbly, staring at her chest. “Yeah, that would be awesome. Like, unbelievably awesome.”

She leads him to the bathroom and Stiles somehow had the forethought to pack his toothbrush so they brush their teeth side by side at the sink before they get into shower together, huddling under the water with their naked chests pressed against each other. Stiles slowly walks her backwards until he has her crowded against the tiled wall and presses up against her, dropping his head down to suck beads of water off her earlobe.

“Let me take you out for breakfast,” he says in a low voice, and slides his hand between her legs.

Lydia sighs and curls over him to rest her head against his shoulder, widening her stance as his fingers begin to stroke, making her exhale sharply. She reaches down to grip his hips to steady herself, listening to the fall of the water and her choppy breathing as he traces slow circles with his fingers, the sensation of lightly callused fingertips against her wet skin making her shiver as tendrils of pleasure unfold low in her belly because apparently her body can't get enough of him.

“Lydia,” he prompts softly, and pushes his fingers against her a little harder.

“You're cheating,” she accuses faintly, wishing she could move more, trapped in such a small space but she likes it too, being at his mercy, because Stiles only wants her to feel good and she can do that, when she knows she's safe with him, when the only things she has to do is let go and feel.

He huffs out a laugh, his free hand firm on her ass, holding her close as his fingers start to push inside and gently work her open, warm pulses of heat beginning to roll through her. “What do you mean?”

She squirms against him; her skin feels too hot and her legs are shaking. “I can't think like this,” she says tightly, inhaling sharply when he curls his fingers inside her and rubs.

“That's kind of the point,” he says cheerfully, and does something with his thumb that makes lighting fly up her spine.

“Stiles!” She mouths against his skin, something urgent tugging at the bottom of her stomach. She digs her fingers into his hips, every nerve in her body singing, her face hot like she's going to cry, and she can't focus like this, she can't have a conversation when he's building her up to the point where it's almost unbearable. “I can't, please.”

“Shh,” he murmurs, like he understands, kneading her glutes. “Okay, I'm sorry.”

“Please,” she whimpers, hot tears sliding out of the corners of her eyes as she rolls her hips in desperation. She can't believe herself, that she's being this greedy but she can't stop, she can't get enough, she never wants this to be over, everything in her head reduced to soft white noise as her body surrenders to him until she's nothing but electric nerves and heat, her poor fluttering heart racing in her chest. “Please, please.”

“Okay,” he says again, but in a different tone, low and gravely, and it shoots right through her, making her go almost rigid with anticipation. 

Lydia swallows back a ragged moan and then he's doing that thing again with his fingers and all she can do is cling to him and cry out in relief, his hand moving relentlessly until she collapses against his chest with a choked gasp, his arms holding her up as she lets go completely, shaking and shaking like she has a terrible fever. She feels like she's been broken down into her most elemental, vulnerable parts - tender wet skin and trembling muscles and nerves singing from just his touch, so raw he could split her right open. She presses her wet face into the meat of his shoulder, hiding, breathing heavily as she slowly comes back to herself.

Stiles smooths her wet hair back and sneaks one hand under it to cup his palm over the back of her neck, long fingers hooking under her jaw so he can tip her head back. “Okay?” he asks, sounding a little concerned, like he's worried he pushed her too far

She goes up on the balls of her feet and brushes her lips against his. “Are you buying me breakfast or what? Because you really know how to work up a girl's appetite.”

Stiles holds her face in his hands like she's something precious and laughs with his whole body, and he's so beautiful it makes her hurt inside, a little amazed at the way he's looking at her, like she's the most incredible thing to ever exist and all he wants is to love her. 

They go back to her room to get dressed, Stiles pulls a pair of jeans and a midnight blue heathered tee shirt out of his backpack while Lydia pulls on a sheer pink thong and matching bra. She goes into her closet and finds a cute [romper](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1531508726650), pale pink with little palm trees printed on it. She steps into it and walks across her room to her vanity, watching Stiles watch her from where he's perched on the edge of her bed.

“I just need ten minutes,” she explains, and brushes out her hair and puts on makeup while Stiles watches her curiously.

When she's finished she puts on her wedges and grabs her Chloé bag, turning to offer Stiles a smile. “Ready?”

He nods and bends down to put on his shoes. “You know you didn't have to - you know.” He gestures loosely at her. “I mean, it's just me.”

She blinks, suddenly feeling self-conscious. She likes to dress nicely, she likes to put on lipstick and make sure her hair looks good, it's an illusion maybe but an important one. It makes her feel safe out in the world, like having a disguise, or a shield, no one will know how broken she is on the inside if they can't see the cracks on the outside.

“Hey, Lydia.” Stiles gets up and walks over to her, reaching out to gently cup her shoulders. “I just meant I think you look beautiful no matter what you're wearing or whether or not you have makeup on, that's all.” His fingers play with the ruffles on her sleeves.

“Oh,” she says softly. She doesn't know what to say, she's never been in this kind of situation with a boy before, someone who's seen every broken part of her and thought she was beautiful anyway. “Thank you.”

He still looks a little uncertain so Lydia reaches out and runs her hands through his damp hair. “You look beautiful too,” she says, only a little teasing.

“Pshh, yeah, okay.” Stiles looks away, like he's embarrassed, his cheeks flushing a little. “Says the actual goddess, but alright, I'll take it.”

“Stiles,” she says, softer this time, and when he turns back to look at her she presses her lips firmly against his. He softens against her, his hands sliding down her arms to loosely hold her wrists.

“Keep that up and it's gonna take us a long time to get out of here,” he mumbles against her lips.

Lydia smiles and flicks her tongue against his. “Allison isn't picking me up until four, I've got time.”

“Mmmm.” Stiles kisses her, soft and slow. “But I'm hungry. And as much as you taste delicious” - he sucks on her bottom lip for emphasis - “I could really go for some pancakes right now.”

“Okay.” Lydia pretends to pout and laughs with delight when he yanks her wrists up to pull her flush against him for one more deep kiss.

He drives them to the cafe and they wait in line, like that first and only official date they had, before he knew everything about her, his arms looped around her waist as he stands behind her in line until they're given a booth. Lydia slides down the seat towards the window and Stiles swoops in next to her, looking almost absurdly pleased with himself, and then she remembers rolling around in bed together as she came again and again, standing in the shower with him, his hands taking her apart, and decides he's earned it. They get coffee and she relaxes back next to him as she cradles her mug in her hands. She gets that feeling again, the same one she had that night he asked her to prom, that things are too perfect right now, that it's all a mirage, because nothing this sweet can stay this way.

She still remembers the panic of last night, how betrayed she felt at herself, for letting her guard down, how the shock of Peter's actions, however small, had hit her like a physical thing. She runs her hands down the side of her ribs and refuses to let herself imagine it - the sound it made when she hit the floor last year, Malia's fist going into the wall, a bullet tearing through Laura's skull.

She flinches anyway.

Next to her Stiles clears his throat, his fingers absentmindedly shredding a paper napkin. “Are you sure you're okay? I get not wanting to talk about last night, I really do, but Lydia” -

“It doesn't matter,” she interrupts sharply. “I'll be fine.”

He makes a little noise of disbelief. “What do you mean, it doesn't matter? How does everything you told me last night not matter?”

“Look,” she says, curling her fingertips into her palms. “I was stressed out, he got in my head. I won't let it happen again.”

He gives her a look like he thinks she's being ridiculous. “What about tonight?”

The words hit her like little bullets, burrowing down to her heart. Everything she's ever dreamed of happens tonight - dancing on stage for everyone, becoming a star, Derek deciding to give her a spot in the company. She drops her head back against the booth at the rush of vertigo, suddenly so overwhelmed that nothing even feels real and yet, here she is.

She made it to the showcase.

If she can do this then she can do anything.

She survived.

“I'm dancing tonight,” she says firmly. “For all I know this could be my last time to perform like this” -

“Lydia”-

“Just let me finish. I'm been dreaming about this moment since I was ten years old. I'm not going to let him ruin that for me. I'm still here and he's not, and I'm going to light that stage on fire tonight. I have to. And he can't stop me. I won't let anything stop me.”

Stiles nods seriously and this his face splits into a smile that could light up the world. “And I can't wait to watch you do it.”

*

The rest of the day flicks by in strange bursts, time unspooling too fast and pulling her along in its wake. [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1531949102419) picks [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1531949342528) up and they don't talk in the car on drive up to the theatre, Allison blasts hip hop and they scream the lyrics out the windows, burning adrenaline, their nerves a physical thing, their bodies thrumming with anticipation the whole way there. The air inside the theatre is thick with it, they rush through the lobby and skid to a stop when Allison grabs Lydia by the wrist, pointing at giant posters hanging on the opposite wall. They walk over to examine their own bodies blown up six feet tall and Lydia remembers that moment before they went inside to see Coppélia months ago, dreaming of this, her name in bold print under a photograph of herself.

Derek chose one of the photos from the walk, Lydia held in Aiden's arms, their faces in profile. Her legs look impossibly thin and delicate, her thighs engulfed by his arm, her shoulders covered by the vibrant red cape. She's looking up at Aiden with big eyes, trusting and open, and he's smiling hungrily at her like he's going to eat her and she looks like a star up there, she looks like a real prima ballerina like the girls she used to idolize, of course she does, because she's Peter’s Little Red, his prima, he made this happen, he made her into this.

She made a deal with the devil and the devil delivered, and all she had to do was let him reach his hands out and defile her soul with every cruel touch until he made her in Laura's image, a girl made up of muscle and bone and pain, a perfect body, a face like a shining star.

“C’mon,” Allison says softly, reaching up to brush the foot her own image, staring up at the picture of her and Isaac, the young lovers, kissing like fools and surrounded by roses. “We should go in.”

Everyone is inside, pulling off layers and digging through their bags, making their way up to the stage. They all spread out like yesterday but before they warm up Derek makes them sit cross legged on the floor of the stage and meditate for five minutes as he leads them through a breathing exercise.

Lydia can't focus, she bats her eyelids open so she can scan the theatre, the balcony seats, the wings, looking for a flash of electric blue that doesn't appear anywhere. She feels better when they stand up to begin class, her body falling into the comfort of pliés, steady repetitive eight counts, the rhythm of bending and stretching. Their warm up blurs by, the next thing she knows she's downstairs next to Allison putting on her makeup, painting her face until she turns into another person, the girl reflected back at her a beautiful porcelain doll with the face of a star.

When all the girls are dressed Marin ushers them up the stairs and through the wings. They all walk out onto the stage, [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530240960552) can hear the audience behind the curtain, soft rustling sounds and hushed voices and her heart is trying to fly out of her chest so she presses her palm over it and breathes, remembering that Stiles is out there and she thinks about this morning, when all she could feel was warm skin and the matching beats of their hearts whispering _safe safe safe_ as he drove her to ecstasy over and over again.

They all get into their opening poses and when the curtain comes up Lydia is blinded by white light but it doesn't matter because the music is playing, she smiles big as she rises up en pointe and begins to dance. She travels up and down the stage, weaves in between the other girls, executes perfect pirouettes and chassés and the little beated jumps Marin is so fond of, her legs slicing through the air, feet moving faster than she can think. It's over before she knows it, when the lights go out they all run off stage left and hurry downstairs to change. Everyone is quiet, there are no selfies being taken tonight, no giggling; everyone is moving with singular focus, changing out of their matching tutus to put on their second costumes with the exception of Malia, who sits on the floor in only a nude thong, knees pulled to her naked chest, watching the other girls get dressed with a bereft expression on her face.

[Kira](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530582049678) is ready to go on time tonight and is sent up by Marin while [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530480842679) gets into her red leotard and carefully puts the white dress on over it, mindful not to get foundation on it. She checks her makeup in the mirror before turning towards [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530481873912), who's sliding her tiara into her hair. Allison catches her eyes in the mirror and gives her a tight lipped smile before reaching for Lydia's hand. They go up with [Erica](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530582950643) like they did yesterday and wait in the wings, doing relevés and leg swings to stay warm while Jackson performs his solo. When he finishes Allison lets out a shaky breath and jumps up and down, watching as Isaac comes onstage for his entrance, leaping impossibly high and landing soundlessly, poor romantic Romeo, searching for his Juliet until Allison runs onstage and Isaac smiles at her like she's the sun, the moon, and the stars all at once, a celestial being deigning to grace him with her presence, her love.

Lydia watches Isaac and Allison while she does small jumps backstage. They dance exquisitely; every movement looks effortless. Isaac tosses Allison around and she flies, she throws herself against him before whirling away like a sprite, by the end of the performance Lydia's heart is in her throat. She feels like she really just watched two people fall in love, Allison's eyes sparkling as she smiles benevolently down at Isaac, his every movement one of absolute devotion. When the variation is finished Isaac stands up, they link hands and Allison kisses him right on the mouth as the audience screams and Lydia swallows back a surprised laugh. Isaac looks flustered but recovers, bowing deep as Allison curtsies next to him, smiling with only a hint of crazed panic on her face before they run off stage right.

Lydia jumps up and down in the wings to stay warm while Boyd does his solo, and after him Erica performs Kitri’s variation. It goes by so fast that Lydia is startled when the curtain comes down, her cue to walk onstage. Aiden comes out from the other end of the stage and meets her halfway, for the first time that she can remember he looks a little nervous, his jaw clenched, but when he reaches for her his hands are gentle and something in her relaxes. She knows this, his hands on her body, and the familiarity of it sets her at ease.

He leans down to press his forehead lightly against hers as they hold hands and they breathe together, palm to palm, just once. He kisses her temple and murmurs, _we got this_ , and Lydia squeezes his hands before letting go and walking upstage to her mark. Lydia forces herself to take slow breaths, her heart pounding so loudly in her ears that it eclipses every other sound, and she thinks of Laura driving into the woods to meet her death, Cora sobbing in the bathroom, Malia falling apart in Scott’s arms on the side of a highway.

Last night, running in the rain, terrified, shaking in Stiles’ arms.

She gets into position, legs crossed in fifth position, arms stretched out in front of her, hands draped over each other, fingers slightly curled like she's holding a basket. The curtain comes up and she looks out at the theatre, dark shadowy faces and the glare of the spotlight, and thinks about what Derek told her the first time he ran their rehearsal: _you're safe here_.

And with a sudden startling flash of clarity Lydia realizes she can feel it - she is safe, she's home, she belongs here, this is her right, to dance on this stage. She can do this. She was born to do this.

The music starts and Lydia lets herself forget about the audience, about the representatives from various companies who may be watching, Derek, Marin, or god forbid, Peter. They can't touch her up here, she's in control, she commands the energy, she is both master and magician, using her body to weave a fairy tale, tell a story, set the world on fire.

She does her first solo, play acting at enchantment, childlike wonder - look, birds! Flowers! Trees! She's a little girl lost to awe, whirling across the stage in delight, until she comes out of her last turn and freezes, a wolf, run! She rushes back across the stage in a circle and leaps, and Aiden catches her, her legs flying out as he spins her around. They doesn't get behind on the count this time, they go right into the pirouettes and Lydia flails dramatically, falling off her pointe until she finally escapes the cage of Aiden's arms. She runs again but Aiden catches her, tossing her into the air before swinging her down. They go through the drops, the assisted arabesque, Lydia turns in his arms and she drops upside down again with her legs around his waist before he throws her high up in the air and catches her by wrapping his right arm around her thighs so they're chest to chest, her feet dangling in the air.

Aiden walks them slowly across the stage and Lydia breathes with him, her hands around his neck, keeping her eyes on his face. He looks down at her with a ghost of a smile and gives her a little wink, and Lydia is overwhelmed with gratitude for him, for his relentless support, his strength, and she softens in his arms, lets him seduce her with every step until they've reached stage left and he sets her down gently on her feet before ripping the white dress off her body.

She can hardly hear the roar of the audience as she leaps up in the air for her second solo. She's a girl on fire and she dances like it, she doesn't hold back, she pours everything she has into each jump combination until she's at the front of the stage, lights shining over her, just like in her fantasy, standing onstage being adored by everyone. She sets up for fouettés and turns and turns, smiling without forcing it because how can she not, elated, triumphant, she can hear people screaming and clapping for her and she turns and turns until she comes out of the last revolution and falls to the side, trusting that Aiden will be there to catch her.

And he does, he scoops her up in his arms and turns with her, sets her down and she jumps up so he can catch her between her legs as she raises her back one up for an arabesque. Aiden swings her up and down the stage like that until he falls to the right, splaying Lydia back over his thigh and she arches her back, not because she has to be sexy but because she wants to be, because this is her moment and she's giving it everything; she drops her head back as she points her toes so her body is one long lean line.

Aiden pulls her up by the wrists, the rest of their pas de deux flying by as he guides her through assisted pirouettes and a final arabesque before they leap away from each other in opposite directions. She doesn't even think about it, Lydia runs across the stage and leaps up and Aiden catches her with his hand and presses her up above her head and she's flying, she's weightless above the stage and she brings her arms triumphantly above her head and smiles so hard her cheeks hurt and the music stops with a bang and the curtains drop.

The most important three minutes of her entire life, and they're already over.

Aiden brings her down and takes her hand to run off the stage together and into the wings before Cora’s solo starts. They walk to the far wall and stand there just breathing heavily for a full minute, staring at each other in amazement, without words. They don't need them, they were on fire tonight, they danced as well as they could have possibly hoped to.

They did it.

Aiden slings his arms around her in a loose hug and Lydia leans against him. “I gotta go change,” he pants out, and drops a sweaty kiss on her forehead. “That was the shit.”

Lydia gives him a quick kiss on the cheek and smacks his hip before he runs off, exhilarated. She tries to breathe slowly as she gets her breath back, her muscles just starting to scream at her as the adrenaline begins to burn off. Cora’s music ends and Lydia shuffles forward a little to watch [Cora](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1530583473253) finish her solo with a deep curtsy at the front of the stage before smiling widely and waving as she runs off stage right into the wings.

She doubles over next to Lydia, her hands on her thighs as she gasps for breath a few times before straightening out. Cora shakes her head and Lydia realizes she's crying. “Fuck,” Cora sobs, angrily swiping at her eyes. “Those fucking entrechats.”

The boys come in through a side door and run past them, all wearing the same grey tee shirts and black tights, and the girls stand quietly while they pass them and go out on stage as a loud drumbeat begins.

“What happened?” Lydia grabs a tissue from the box sitting on a stool and hands it to her.

Cora pats delicately under her eyes. “I missed the last one, I counted wrong, _fuck!_ ”

“No one will know,” Lydia reassures her.

Cora crumples up the tissue in her fist. “Derek will know.”

Lydia doesn't have an answer to that because Cora's right, so she gently unfurls Cora's fingers and throws the tissue away for her before reaching down to clasp her hand. “Come on, let's watch the guys.”

They stand in the wings together and watch the boys leap and kick, showing off how high they can jump in Finstock’s trademark frenetic athletic style. When the piece is over all the guys kneel, Lydia can hear the audience clapping for them before the lights go out and the curtain drops.

“Come on, we come in from stage left.” Cora tugs on Lydia's arm and they run across the stage, zig zagging between the boys.

Marin is waiting for them in the wings on the other side of the stage with the rest of the girls, Cora gets into her place in the front and Lydia walks to the back of the line behind Kira. The curtain flies up and people start clapping again as Cora walks out on the stage. Derek’s waiting for her, holding an armful of bouquets of white roses in his arm. He kisses her cheek and gives her the first bouquet, and Lydia watches as Derek quickly leans over Cora and whispers something that makes her laugh before she nods and walks over to Ethan to stand in front of him. They all go out one by one, when it's Lydia's turn she goes to Derek and takes the roses he offers her with shaking hands, blinded by the lights. Suddenly everything feels surreal, she can't believe she's here, holding roses on stage with everyone she loves around her, clapping just for her.

Derek bends down and lightly rests his hand on her back. “Well done,” he murmurs.

Lydia smiles up at him tremulously and Derek nods his head slightly and tips it towards Aiden, and Lydia rushes across the stage to him, the roses cradled in her arms. She turns towards the front and waves before she curtsies deep, scanning the audience, spotting Scott and Stiles in the second row sitting next to Nurse McCall. She smiles and steps back to hold Aiden's hand and all the level eights take one last bow together as everyone claps, and then the curtain drops.

It's over.

Lydia turns around and hugs Aiden, he laughs and picks her up by the waist to twirl her around once before setting her down and jogging over to his brother. Lydia finds Allison across the stage and runs over to her, she's standing next to Isaac with her eyes full of tears and Lydia doesn't have it in her to tease Allison about that kiss earlier, she wraps her arms around her and Allison sniffs and drops her chin to her shoulder.

“Get in here,” Lydia says to Isaac, and he rolls his eyes but he stretches his arms out around both of them so Allison is in the middle of the hug.

“You were amazing,” Lydia whispers. “ _Amazing._ ”

Allison lets out a watery laugh. “It felt amazing.”

Issac sighs, pressing his face into Allison's hair. “Yeah, it did.”

Allison turns around and hugs Isaac, tears running down her face. “I love you,” she says, like she doesn't care if anyone hears. “You're so incredible. You're going to be the best, wherever you end up. I'm so lucky I got put with you that day in class.”

Isaac looks supremely uncomfortable at Allison's display of affection. “Yeah, lucky you got the one guy who was tall enough to handle you.”

“Don't do that,” Allison reprimands softly, and cups his face while Lydia stands next to her, watching Isaac shoot her a look of horror over Allison's head. “You're so special, okay Isaac?”

Isaac closes his eyes and for a second Lydia thinks he's going to cry too, but all he does is drop his head down to press his lips to Allison's forehead. “We should go change, everyone's waiting outside.”

Allison sniffs again and rubs her nose. “We're getting dinner with our parents and Scott and his mom and Stiles, do you want to come?”

Isaac grins. “Can't. Derek's taking me and Cora and Malia out. See you out there?”

“Yeah.” Allison wipes her eyes and smiles. “Okay.”

She reaches down for Lydia's hand and they turn and walk offstage. “I don't want to talk about it,” Allison says.

Lydia raises her eyebrow. “Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“I didn't say anything,” Lydia says, but then she starts to laugh and Allison pouts but then she starts to giggle hysterically as they walk down the stairs to the dressing room.

“God, I'm so fucking emotional right now, I hate it.” Allison shifts her roses to her other hand. “I just got caught up in the moment, you know? It's such a romantic piece and I just kind of realized I was never going to dance with him again and I got swept up in it and completely forgot about everything else.”

Allison jumps off the last step and Lydia follows her over to their table. Allison frowns at her reflection as she lays her roses down before sitting on a chair to take off her pointe shoes. “Oh my god, Scott's going to kill me.”

Lydia unties the ribbons on her pointe shoes. “He’ll understand.”

Allison sighs. “I guess when you spend all your time with someone and get used to them touching you basically everywhere and you have to pretend to be in love with each other… I forgot where the line was, I guess.”

Lydia peels off her leotard and crosses over to the costume rack to hang it up before going back over to Allison. “But you love Scott, right?”

Allison freezes, a handful of bobby pins held in her fingers. “Of course.”

Lydia shrugs and unzips her dance bag to pull out her [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1531603488189). “Problem solved then. Say you got caught up in the moment and remind him how much you love him, it's not like Scott could ever really get mad at you anyway.”

Allison slides her costume off her body. “Or I could screw his brains out, that always works.”

“Amen!” Erica shouts from a few chairs away.

Lydia changes into her dress and sits down to take off her false eyelashes. She doesn't bother trying to get the rest of her heavy makeup off, she’ll do it later at home. She stops for a moment just to look at herself in the mirror, a strange hollow feeling in her chest.

She thought that she would feel different after the showcase. Like she would be a different person, like she would magically transform into the woman she's been working so hard to become for so long, but now that the adrenaline has worn off and she's calmed down, back to the monotony of hanging costumes and re-taping her toes, she realizes it hasn't happened.

She feels exactly the same.

Lydia packs up her stuff quietly as everyone gets changed and pulls their things together, Allison changed into a color blocked [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1531602608290) next to her and brushes out her hair before zipping her bag shut and strapping on her heels. Everyone's dressed up, even Malia's in a nice slip [dress](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1532041289491) although she's stubbornly paired it with her Converses like the little punk she is, and Lydia can't resist giving her a hug, they've been through hell together and they still made it here, broke their bones and bled and cried but they did it, and that's what matters, that's what has to matter. Next to Malia [Cora](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1532045101546) has recovered, regal as always, you can't even tell she was crying earlier. Her hair has been taken down and it falls in one sleek sheet over her shoulder.

“Are we going up or what?” [Erica](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1532044263648) snaps her gum.

[Kira](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1532044560726) cranes her head towards the top of the stairs and glances back at everyone. “Ready?”

Erica smiles at them all, her dark eyes shining. “I love you stupid bitches.”

“Love you too, whore.” Cora slaps Erica's ass and leads them all upstairs and out into the hallway of the theatre.

They all instantly get separated by a rush of people, parents and siblings and friends all screaming and calling out names. Lydia whirls around, looking for her mom, and then she can hear someone calling her name and she pushes against the flow of traffic in the hallway, craning her head.

“Lydia! Lydia!” Stiles pushes through a group of people to get through her, a crazed smile on his face. He's wearing a dark blue button down tucked into khakis and he's holding a huge bouquet of sunset roses out to her, the same kind he bought her on her first date.

“Thank you,” she says, taking the roses, and bursts into tears.

“Lydia!” Stiles grabs her by the elbow, clearly alarmed, and steers her down the hallway and into an alcove away from the crowd. “Hey, what is it?”

She leans her head back against the wall and hides her face behind her free hand, her other arm overflowing with roses. “I don't know,” she chokes out. “I don't know.”

“Okay,” he says softly, and puts his arms around her, careful not to crush the flowers. “It's okay.”

She sniffs and leans into the hug for a moment, blinking away tears. “Sorry, I think I'm just overwhelmed.”

“It's okay.” He rubs her bare back for a moment, his fingers tracing over the straps of her dress. “Do you need a minute?”

She inhales furiously and shakes her head, offering him a tentative smile. “No, I'm okay.”

He smiles back, releasing her but standing so close she could fall right back into him if she wanted to. “Hey.”

Lydia looks down at the vibrant roses in her arms and back up to him. “Hey.”

He cups his hand behind her neck for a moment and her knees go weak. “You did it,” he says, pride unmistakable in his voice. “You were incredible.”

She stares at him with wide eyes, because he's the one person she's never had to try and impress and she didn't realize until now how much it means to her, that he's proud of her, because she knows he doesn't just mean that she danced well - she did something she wasn't sure she could do, she walked out on that stage and showed the world what she was made of, she didn't break, she didn't quit, she didn't walk out of the theatre in her leotard and into the dark night to die.

She did it. She really did it.

“Lydia! Hey, Lydia!” Aiden's waving her over from where he's standing with Ethan and Cora.

“Come on.” Lydia reaches down to grip Stiles’ hand. “Come meet my dance partner.”

She leads him over to Aiden, watching as he eyes Stiles up and down. “This is Stiles, my boyfriend, Stiles, this is Aiden.”

She doesn't realize what she's done until Stiles turns, blinking huge eyes at her, and Lydia shrugs, smiling, because the showcase is over now, there's no point in pretending anymore. They slept in the same bed last night, they showered together, they've been falling for each other for months and she said they could be together after the showcase and she meant it.

Aiden doesn't smile but he reaches out to shake Stiles’ hand. “Hey man, nice to meet you.”

“Same, hey, congrats, you were awesome tonight,” Stiles says generously.

Aiden grins and winks at Lydia. “It's all her, she's the magic.”

Stiles looks at Lydia and grins back at Aiden. “Yeah, Lydia's pretty amazing.”

She hears it again, the unmistakable note of pride in his voice and she flushes, the hollow place in her chest filling up with warmth and affection that bubbles over until she's standing there like an idiot, clutching the flowers he gave her.

“Lydia, Stiles!” It's Allison, shrieking at them from the lobby, where she's standing with Chris, Scott, Nurse McCall, and Lydia's mother. 

“We have to go, see you Monday!” Lydia leans in and gives Aiden a quick hug, kisses his and Ethan's cheeks and waves to Cora before pulling Stiles across the lobby where everyone is waiting for them.

“Oh Lydia, honey, you were fantastic, absolutely divine.” Her mother shoves a bouquet of lilies into her arms on top of the roses she's already holding and pulls her into an embrace. “I haven't seen a performance like that in years, honestly. Just sublime.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Lydia pulls away, embarrassed, and leans back towards Stiles. 

Her mother doesn't miss a thing, tilting her head at him. “Who's your friend, honey?”

Lydia squares her shoulders and reaches for Stiles’ hand. “Mom, this is Stiles. My boyfriend.”

“Oh!” Her mother looks a little surprised but she recovers well, smiling and offering her hand for him to shake. “Well then you must come out with us, we're all going to dinner to celebrate.”

“I'd love to, thank you,” he says, like Lydia hadn't already invited him weeks ago when she gave him his ticket, they always go out to eat with the Argents after recitals, it's tradition.

Allison is sandwiched between Scott and her dad, holding two gigantic bouquets of pink roses. If there's tension between her and Scott Lydia can't see it, Scott's got one arm slung around her waist, a proud expression on his face while Chris and Nurse Mcall talk quietly with each other, their faces serious. Stiles frowns and tips his chin at them, and Scott shakes his head, mouths _later_ , and rolls his eyes.

“Hey guys!” Kira pops up, flanked by both her parents.

“Hi Mr. Yukimura,” Scott says cheerfully, and smiles at Kira. “Hey Kira, you were great up there!”

Kira flushes horribly and shrinks against her mom a little. “Thanks, um, thanks Scott, hey, have you guys met my mom?”

“Of course, lovely to see you again Noshiko.” Lydia's mom smiles gracefully. “I don't believe you've met Chris Argent, Allison's father?”

Chris turns at the sound of his name and all the parents clump into a group to chat for a minute before Kira rests her hand on her father's arm and whispers something that makes him smile and nod at everyone. “If you'll excuse us, my daughter has just reminded me that we're about to be late for our reservation.”

He wraps his arm around Kira's shoulders tenderly and Lydia ignores the sudden sharp sting in her chest as he smiles at them. “You were all terrific tonight ladies, congratulations.”

Kira waves goodbye as she walks out, bookended by her parents. Lydia glances at Allison, who looks a little worn down, her arms sagging under the weight of her flowers. “Where's your mom?” she whispers.

“Work,” Allison says tightly. “Dad, can we go now?”

Scott pats Allison's shoulder reassuringly as Chris nods, offering his arms to both Scott and Lydia’s mothers, who each link their arms through his, laughing. “Ladies, shall we?”

“Ew,” Lydia whispers, wrinkling her nose at Allison, who pretends to gag, making Scott and Stiles laugh.

They all follow their parents outside, the boys kindly carrying the girls’ dance bags for them. Scott and Allison slow down and trail a little behind Stiles and Lydia on the sidewalk and Stiles turns to Lydia to smile at her, finally a little semblance of privacy as they walk a few feet behind their parents down the street towards the restaurant.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “So… I'm your boyfriend now?”

“Aren't you?” she asks.

Stiles blinks rapidly at her. “Yeah, yes, I absolutely concur. You were really not kidding about after the showcase, huh?”

“Nope,” she says easily, smiling, swinging their links hands together a little.

“So, can I call you my girlfriend?”

“You better.”

Stiles laughs and reaches down to readjust his hold on her free hand, the one that isn't weighted down with all her flowers. “Awesome. Glad we cleared that up.”

“Took you long enough!” Allison shouts behind them, and Lydia gives her the finger without turning around, hearing Scott and Allison laugh good naturedly behind them. 

“Hey.” Lydia leans in towards him, talking softly so Scott and Allison can't hear. “Is your dad working tonight?”

Stiles turns his head sharply towards her. “Yeah, why?”

“Well,” she says softly, faux-casual, like she's just thinking out loud. “I can never fall asleep right away the night after a show. I thought maybe I could come over later.”

She watches a series of expressions flash across his face before it settles into delight. “Yeah! Yeah, absolutely. I mean, you're my girlfriend now, right, you can come over whenever you want, me casa su casa and all that, and” -

Lydia presses her lips to his and swallows the rest of his words right there on the sidewalk in front of everyone, her heart like a rising balloon in her chest, so light she could float away but she knows she won't, not with Stiles’ warm hands on her body keeping her feet connected to the ground.


	31. save me a dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well my darlings, here we are. We've made it to the end. I know I've told some of you this but this fic started as a concept that I came up with at three in the morning (insomnia is terrible for me but it's great for my creativity, go figure) and I am one of those people that has to write my ideas out or they will live in my head forever tormenting me until I get them down on paper. I really had no idea when I started this that it would become such a complex multilayered monster of a fic - I honestly thought I would write a little ballet Stydia drama that maybe ten people would read and then I'd move on to the next thing, and that's obviously not what happened. I have to give a massive thank you to every single person who read this, rec'd this, left kudos, and especially to those of you who were kind enough to leave comments - getting to know you has been the most beautiful unexpected part of this experience and I will forever be grateful for it. Thank you for supporting me and this fic even when I was feeding you nothing but angst. I'm also thrilled to announce that this chapter has gorgeous fan art created by the talented Ellinor (Instagram@ethelour_) featured below! With that, and I say this in disbelief that I am actually typing this - I sincerely hope you enjoy the final chapter of Don't Look Down.

On Saturday night Lydia's mother talks during the entire drive home while [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1531603488189) sits next to her with her cheek pressed against the window, watching the twinkling lights of San Francisco disappear in the rearview mirror. Her mom analyzes Lydia's performance movement by movement and then gives her the breakdown of every other solo her classmates performed. Lydia tunes it out, it doesn't matter anymore, she did the best she possibly could have and now it's out of her hands.

It's a strange feeling.

When they get home her mom helps Lydia carry all of her bags into the house. Lydia stops at the bottom of the stairs, handing her multiple bouquets to her mom so she can put them in water. Her mother hesitates for a moment and then she leans in and kisses Lydia’s cheek.

“I'm so proud of you, baby,” she whispers. “Whatever happens, you were beautiful tonight. You made all of us proud.”

“Thanks Mom.” Lydia's throat tightens. Things with her mother have been so fraught lately but she's still her mom, she's the reason Lydia was ever able to have this, she's the parent who chose Lydia. She's the only parent Lydia really has.

Her mother smiles, looking down at the roses Stiles gave her. “These are pretty.”

“Mhmm.”

Her mother laughs. “Okay honey, I'm sure you're tired. Go shower.”

“Okay.” Lydia leans forward suddenly, because she knows this part, they've done this for eight years and she can't let herself lose this. She wraps her arms tightly around her mother, the person who made her, who took Lydia's dream seriously from the beginning and did what she had to do so it was attainable. “I love you, Mom.”

Her mother seems startled but then she hugs her back, the cellophane wrapping around the roses getting crushed between them. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

Lydia grabs her bags and takes everything up to her room, changes into her robe and goes into the bathroom. She uses cold cream to wipe off all her stage makeup and stares at the mirror as her face is revealed, pale and imperfect but hers again and not the contoured glossy face of a star, and it feels like a relief, to see herself again. She tilts her head from side to side, remembering all of those times she tried to divine her future in the glass, see herself as the star she could be.

The girl in the mirror has traces of stubborn eyeliner smudged around her lash line, lips that have been scrubbed raw to get off all her lipstick, eyes that still look a little haunted. She's beautiful anyway, she decides. Maybe she’ll never look like the girl she used to be before all of this, apple cheeked and bright eyed, a little ballerina baby. But that's okay. So she's a little fragile now, of course she is - she's been broken apart and glued back together and if she looks at herself hard enough she can see it, in the sharpness of her cheekbones, the circles under her eyes. She can learn to make her peace with that.

She survived. She isn't ashamed of that.

Lydia takes out all the pins in her hair and brushes out as much hair spray out as she can before getting into the shower. She uses her scented body wash and shaves, washes her hair with coconut scented shampoo twice to get out all the hairspray and runs conditioner through it. She leans her face into the hot water, feeling her heart beat irrationally hard in her chest when she thinks about Stiles back at his house, waiting for her. She's keyed up, the way she always is after a big show, still exhilarated from performing, high off of all that energy.

She rinses her hair and gets out of the shower, wraps a thick towel around herself and blow dries her hair until it's slightly damp, braids the top section back and ties it all up in a loose bun. She pats on moisturizer and takes an extra minute to apply body lotion to every inch of her skin before going back to her room. She spends a stupidly long time standing in front of her underwear drawer trying to decide what to wear. Normally she would choose something bombastic, blow his mind in cherry red satin or black lace, but then she thinks about Stiles standing in her bedroom shyly telling her he thinks she's beautiful no matter she wears, and reevaluates.

She chooses a sheer mesh blush pink bralette and matching thong, pretty but simple, elegant without trying too hard, and stands in front of the mirror. She looks at the curves of her breasts in the skimpy bralette, the flat planes of her stomach and the sharp lines of her hip bones. She points one foot and lifts her leg slightly off the floor, exposing the lean muscles of her thigh. She used to love her body before, back when she was healthy and had a nice balance of soft curves and strong muscles, before she tried to make herself into something small and sharp and hard. Now all she sees are pieces that have been stripped down to their barest parts and for the first time she feels a real ache inside for herself, for what she’s put her body through, how deeply she's let everything affect her on a physical level, made her body a separate entity to be starved and abused instead of something precious to be nurtured.

It makes her sad, to realize that she's accomplished so much, has so many things to be proud of, feel good about, and here she is, staring at her mostly naked body wondering what her boyfriend is going to think about it the first time they have sex.

She presses her lips together and forces herself to walk away from the mirror, reminding herself that Stiles has seen her naked before and resolves to not let herself get self conscious, not to let herself ruin this. It's still hot out so she pulls on a blue cropped tee and a pair of white crochet [shorts](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1532315304467) and sits down at her vanity. She knows she doesn't have to put on makeup again but she wants to look nice, not necessarily for him, but because tonight is going to be special and she loves the ritual of it, it calms her down; she applies tinted moisturizer, mascara and lip balm, dabs shimmery highlighter over her cheekbones and the corners of her eyes, and studies her reflection before deeming it acceptable.

She puts on her Chloé flats, grabs her phone, and goes downstairs, takes the keys out of the dish on the entry table and goes outside, texting Stiles that she's heading over before getting into the car. Her hands are shaking a little, she leans her head down on the steering wheel and takes a deep breath as she tries to remember that Stiles isn't Jackson, he would never drop her or let her break, he's never been cold to her even when she deserved it. She starts the engine and curls her hands around the wheel, forcing herself to believe that finally giving him full access to her body isn't going to result in him hurting her, that she can be brave enough to risk it with him; he's had so many opportunities to hurt her and he's never made her feel unsafe, vulnerably small or afraid.

He's always treated her with kindness, and an absurd amount of patience, he waited for her until she was ready.

Because he loves her, she realizes, and slams the lid shut on that little realization before she can really get overwhelmed. She backs out of the driveway slowly and turns onto her street, drives the whole way to Stiles’ house with her hands clenched around the wheel, amazed at herself, that she's this nervous. For so long every little thing in her head, every obsession, was about the showcase, ballet, her body, but this, this is different, this is something she can't control, she has to trust that Stiles is who she believes he is, that he really does care about her, that she can trust herself with him.

She's come too far to get hurt again.

When she gets to his house Lydia parks in the driveway and gets out, feeling the pull in her chest that leads her down the walk and up the porch stairs. He must have been watching for her because the door opens when she gets to the top step and just like that all her nerves melt away because Stiles is waiting for her in the doorway wearing a pair of lacrosse shorts and a burgundy tee shirt with the sleeves cut off, looking at her like he's been waiting for her his whole life, like she's the most incredible things he's ever seen, and Lydia floats across the porch to him, winding her arms around his neck to kiss him.

He kisses her back, so softly, one of his hands reaching up to curl around her wrist. He pulls her arms down and leads her through the doorway and into the house, their lips pressed together. He slams the front door shut with his foot and reaches backwards to lock it so he can still kiss her while he does it. Lydia crowds him up against the door, relishing the feeling of his lips against hers, warmth spreading through her body as he kisses her tenderly, one of his hands curling over her hip.

“Hey,” he whispers against her lips, turning his head to kiss her jaw.

She tips her chin up to give him more access, sighing when his lips trail across her throat. “Hey.”

He nuzzles her collarbone, his hand sliding from her hip down to her ass. “How are you doing?”

“Good,” she breathes, gasping when he grazes the collar of her tee shirt with his teeth. “You?”

“Fantastic.” He keeps one hand on her ass and uses the other to cup the back of her head as his mouth attacks her throat. “God, you smell good.”

“I showered,” she says stupidly, gripping the bottom of his tee shirt with her hands. She squirms, in flats she's not at the right height for this, his body half curled over hers, but then he pushes a thigh between her legs and her eyes fall shut as she experimentally rubs against it.

His hand slides down to curl around the back of her neck as his mouth comes up to her ear. “Can I get you anything?”

She rolls her body against him and shivers as heat rushes through her. “I'm good.”

He scrapes his teeth against her earlobe. “You sure?”

Her thighs go soft and she has to force herself to walk backwards out of his hold before she loses her head completely and asks him to fuck her standing up in his foyer. She rolls her shoulders back and reaches for his hand. “I want to see your room.”

He blinks rapidly at her before lacing their fingers together. “Oh, yeah, okay, sure, c’mon.”

He leads her up the stairs and down a hallway, pushes a door open and gestures for her to follow him inside. It looks like a typical boy's room, nothing special except for the fact that it's his, which makes everything about it special. There's a desk pushed against the wall next to a window, a bulletin board with little scraps of paper and different colored threads tacked onto it, a dresser, band posters on the walls, a photo collage of him and Scott and some of their lacrosse teammates in a cheap frame on top of a bookshelf, a full sized bed against one wall with a nightstand pushed next to it.

“This is it, nothing special really.” He waves his hand loosely around the room. “Desk, bookshelf, dresser. Bed.”

“I can see that.” Lydia goes up on her tiptoes and brushes her lips against his. “Show me the bed.”

She can feel it when he gulps but then Stiles cups his hands around her hips, walking backwards with her following, toe to toe, until his knees hit the mattress. He climbs onto the bed and scoots backwards until he's against the headboard, eyes big and vulnerable as he leans over his nightstand to turn the lamp on. Lydia takes her phone and car keys out of her pocket and drops them on top of his dresser, slips out of her flats and lines them up against the wall before rolling her shorts down and stepping out of them. She gets up on the bed, knees sinking into the blue checked comforter, and crawls up to him until she's kneeling over his lap. Stiles’ mouth is open, hands twitching against the blue sheets like he's trying to resist grabbing her. Lydia smirks at that and drops her hands down to his shoulders as she leans in to kiss him.

As soon as their lips touch Stiles’ hands fly to her body, sliding up her naked thighs. Lydia sinks down so she's straddling him, her knees pressed against his hips. He groans into her mouth and slips one hand up her shirt, flattening it against her back to push her flush against him. Lydia melts slowly, feeling him hard underneath her as he kisses her deeply, flicking his tongue against hers. She rolls her hips against him and whimpers at the sudden throb between her legs. She plucks at his shirt, needing to feel him, hot skin and strong lean muscle for her to explore. Stiles sits up a little and yanks his shirt over his head, letting it fall to the floor as he leans back against a pillow.

He kisses her as she uses her hands to feel him out, coasting them over his pecs, his ribs, his stomach, muscles and bones that at this point are almost as familiar to her as her own, all the while slowly rolling her hips against him until she's gasping into his mouth, wound up and thighs shaking with tension.

“Can I take your shirt off?” he mumbles against her mouth.

She nods, breathless, sitting up in his lap, and lifts her arms above her head. Stiles catches the hem of her shirt in his hands and slowly peels it up, gently pulls it over her head and drops it down on top of his shirt of the floor. His eyes go to her chest and Stiles slides his hands up her stomach, her muscles contracting under his fingers. “Can you lean back a little?” he asks.

She hinges back, using her core and thighs to hold herself up, a little puzzled, but then Stiles slides a hand under her back to help support her and closes his mouth around one of her breasts. She gasps as he sucks through the fabric, switching back and forth between each breast for awhile, and then he uses his teeth to pull the fabric down until she spills out of the cups. Her thighs are shaking, Lydia lets her head drop backwards and stretches back, putting her palms flat on the bed as she leans into a backbend.

Stiles groans, undoing the clasp of her bralette one handed. “You're so flexible,” he says, sounding awestruck, and she flushes with pride, just from the tone of his voice, flinging off the bralette and arching back a little more just to show off.

He repeats the whole process of devouring her chest until she aches everywhere, her breasts wet from his mouth and his tongue, her muscles trembling from holding herself up. He kisses her sternum, pushes his mouth under her breasts to lick the soft skin there. His arms wrap around her waist and Lydia groans a little as he hauls her back up. She falls forward and collapses against his chest, moaning at the heat of his naked skin against hers. He's hard against her core and Lydia rolls her hips, shuddering at the feeling, an ache spreading low in her pelvis.

His hands roam over her naked back, her hips, her waist, sliding under the strap of her thong to spread over the top of her ass, pressing her hips firmly against his. Lydia lets out a tense sigh, her stomach tightening as he rubs against her. She rests her head on his chest, idly kissing under his collarbone as their bodies roll against each other until she's hot everywhere, panting sharply against him.

“Stiles,” she says tightly, her hands gripping his biceps. “You have a condom, right?”

He shudders under her, his hips bucking up. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Do you - are you sure?”

She goes up on her knees and rolls down her thong, the fabric damp, and slings it across the bed. “I wouldn't ask if I wasn't.”

He sits up a little to kiss her again, sucking on her bottom lip as he runs his right hand up her thigh. “Are you sore or anything from dancing?”

She shakes her head, widening her knees a little. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“But you're okay right now?” His hand moves in between her legs to cup her.

“I'm okay,” she reassures him, her voice thin with need.

“Okay,” he says, fingers teasing her open. “You'll tell me if you aren't?”

She blinks at him, remembering standing outside the diner with Stiles the night he won his lacrosse game, when he made her agree to text him when she got home so he wouldn't worry.

“Okay,” she promises, and leans in to kiss him. His fingers stroke and Lydia huffs out a breathy laugh as pleasure skitters up her spine. “But I really don't think it's going to be an issue.”

“Just wanna make sure,” he says breathlessly, his free hand firm against her hip.

“I know,” she says gently, because she knows how much he worries about her and she doesn't want that, not tonight, so she kisses him firmly before looking down to watch herself sink onto two of his fingers.

She gasps loudly at the sensation of suddenly feeling him inside her and falls forward into him. Stiles stretches his thumb up until she cries out sharply, her hands flying to his shoulders to hold herself up as he curls his fingers and rubs. She rocks her hips, eyes drifting shut, and lets him work her up until she's shaking against his chest, riding his hand as he kisses the side of her neck. When she comes it happens so fast that takes her by surprise, her faces pushed into his chest as her body contracts over and over, his other hand sweeping up and down her spine as she rides it out. 

She lifts off his fingers and nudges her face against his, demanding kisses, cupping her hands around the back of his neck. He kisses her back enthusiastically, his hands squeezing her thighs, her ass, back down between her legs to rub her in circles until she's panting into his mouth, lightheaded.

“I'm ready,” she breathes, peeking up at him through her eyelashes, lightheaded.

His cheeks are flushed, his eyes dark and Lydia shivers as he rubs her harder, making her hiss. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” she says through clenched teeth, and tosses her head back as she comes again, his fingers coaxing it out of her.

“Okay,” he says softly, and she's so wrung out he's able to pick her right up and roll her over onto her back. He hovers over her, leaning down to kiss her before pulling away. “One second.”

Lydia stretches out on her side so she can watch him swing his legs over the bed and stand up. He shoves down his shorts and boxers in one go and stumbles out of them before opening the top drawer of his nightstand. She stares at his body as he bends over, the broad line of his shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, the vee of his hips, his long legs. Stiles pulls out a condom and sits down at the edge of the bed as he gets the wrapper off, offering her nervous looking smile. Lydia reaches for him and Stiles settles in between her legs, going up on his shins to get the condom on.

Lydia leans up on her elbows and reaches out with her left hand to help him roll it on and Stiles groans at her touch, dropping his head back for a second before looking down to make sure the condom’s on right. He leans over her and Lydia rolls back down so she's flat underneath him, a sudden cold wave of fear splashing over her that recedes as quickly as it comes on because Stiles is smiling warmly at her, his lips merely an inch above hers.

She doesn't have to be afraid. She's with him.

“You're so pretty,” he says reverently, and kisses her softly as he reaches down to line himself up. “You still okay?”

She reaches up and curls her hands around his biceps, like she's going to need something to hold onto. She looks up at him, softly lit in burnished gold by the dim light, and everything in her goes tight at the promise of him inside of her. “Yeah,” she whispers, and tilts her hips up.

He sinks into her slowly; Lydia clenches her jaw and exhales sharply at the sensation of being filled. He stops once he's fully inside her, she can feel his arms tremble as he stares down at her, his mouth slightly open, eyes wide. She slides her hands up to his shoulders and they just breathe like that, caught in each other's eyes. She's overcome then, by that fleeting feeling again that she's in a perfect moment right now, with him, their bodies connected so deeply she can feel him pulse inside of her and her throat goes tight like she's going to cry.

Lydia shifts her hips a little, allowing him to sink in slightly deeper, and something inside her lights up like a firecracker. She gasps and rolls her hips, feeling it out, and Stiles groans, his eyes squeezing shut. “You good?” he grits out.

“Yeah,” she pants, and squeezes the back of his neck with one hand. He pulls out slightly and rocks back in, making Lydia exhale sharply again. “You can, yeah, I'm good. C’mon. Stiles.”

He starts to move for real, slow rolling thrusts that make her shiver. She pulls down on his neck and Stiles drops his head to her shoulder, sucking on it idly as she wraps her legs around his waist. He sticks to a steady rhythm that makes a slow burning fire spread through her veins, his body shaking under her hands like it's taking everything in him to stay in control. She clings to him, her hands grasping at his neck, his shoulders, his back, desperately rolling her hips until she's shaking everywhere, a strange sense of urgency flooding through her. His face is buried in the side of her neck, hot breath against her skin. He reaches down to grip her thighs and Lydia lets him spread her legs wide, pushing her knees up towards her shoulders.

She arches up against him and cries out when he starts to speed up, just a little, enough to make her gasp for breath as the pressure in her pelvis starts to build, her thighs trembling under his hands. “Stiles,” she gasps, turning her face towards him. “Stiles.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, and lets go of her, pushing up a little on his elbows so he can look at her, his cheeks flushed, hair a mess. “God, look at you.”

He snaps his hips and she mewls, her hands scrabbling desperately at him like she'll fall apart if she isn't touching him everywhere. Something dark flashes in his eyes and Stiles reaches back to grab her wrists. He keeps his eyes on her face as he pulls her arms up so they're above her head, like he's waiting for her to stop him, but Lydia just whimpers and squeezes his hands with her own. He pins her there with one hand around her wrists and she stares up at him, rolling her hips mindlessly, too desperate to be embarrassed at the constant whines escaping her mouth as he continues to determinedly hit the same spot inside her, stroke after stroke, until she's on the verge of sobbing.

“Stiles,” she gasps. She can feel him everywhere, the solid heat of his hips and his chest and his hand holding her wrists. She isn't afraid to be held down, not by him, when all he's ever wanted for her is to feel good. “Stiles, don't stop. Don't stop.”

“I won't,” he vows in a gravelly voice. “I've got you.”

He drops his head to her throat and sucks, and Lydia can't do anything but writhe underneath him. She feels like she's going to shatter, every muscle in her body strung tight, all her focus on him moving inside her in a steady rhythm that makes everything build and build until she's burning up. She's hot everywhere, so turned on it almost hurts and she can't do anything about it other than try to meet him with every roll of his hips, only half aware that she's begging, _pleasepleaseStilesohgodplease_ , her voice sliding up hysterically at the end, her fingers twisting around his.

“Fuck,” he whispers into her skin, his voice shaking like he's on the verge of falling apart. “Oh fuck, Lydia.”

His hand tightens around her wrists, not painfully, just pressure that mimics the pounding of his body slamming into her. She arches back, her mouth dropping open as she starts to cry, and comes so hard she sees stars, bursts of light exploding behind her eyelids, her body clamping down around him. Stiles lets go of her wrists to cup her jaw so he can kiss her and she cries into his mouth, reaching down to hold his hips tightly so he can't leave her, can't stop, and Stiles doesn't, just keeps moving inside her, punching rough sobs out of her as she comes and comes, her nails sinking into his skin.

“Oh!” Stiles gasps harshly, dropping his head down next to hers on the pillow, and shudders with his whole body, grinding his hips into her until he groans, his thighs and glutes flexing as he comes.

Lydia breathes shakily, staring up at the ceiling as she runs her hands up and down his back. They lay there like that for a minute, both of them catching their breath before Stiles shifts. Lydia whimpers as he pulls out of her but then he catches her mouth with his lips and the whimper turns into a drawn out moan as he kisses her.

“Hang on,” he murmurs, and moves around her to lean over the edge of the bed to trash the condom.

He flips back around to face her as he stretches out on his side, arms held out to her, the softest look on his face, like she's this delicate lovely thing he loves more than anything. “C’mere.”

Lydia curls into him and Stiles pulls her flush against him, one arm wrapping around her waist while the other weaves under her shoulders so he can cup the back of her head with one hand. Lydia blinks at him, her eyes a little teary. There’s something happening in her chest, some fragile feeling beating in her heart and she presses her face into his throat, where it's warm and dark and safe.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his fingers playing with the loose strands of hair escaping her bun. “You okay?”

Lydia nods against him, and kisses the hollow of his throat. “Mmhm.”

Stiles laughs, the hand on her back skimming down her spine all the way to her tailbone. “That good huh?”

She forces herself to lift her head then so she can see him, amazed like she always is when he looks at her like this - wide open, nothing to hide, eyes filled with adoration for her. “So good,” she whispers, and kisses him.

“Mm.” He sighs into it, dipping his fingers into the cleft of her ass, making her shiver, his other hand petting the base of her skull. 

She knows that there are things they need to talk about, plans to be made, feelings to be acknowledged, but right now she's in bed with a boy who makes her heart feel like it's too big for her body and her body feel like it's designed for him, for him to bring it to new heights of pleasure that she didn't even know she was capable of feeling, and his eyes shine like stars at her and Lydia's falling, falling, but his arms are around her and he's holding her like she's something infinitely precious, irreplaceable, and this is all she wants right now, to have this.

Lydia rests her palm over his chest so she can feel his heart beating under her touch and kisses him again.

*

On Monday morning all the level eight girls gather in Studio B. They don't have technique though, classes are over, the school is out of session until summer intensive starts, they all have to be moved out of the dorms by Thursday. They're waiting in the studio for Derek, who's sitting two floors below them in his office, about to deliver each girl's future to them one by one.

Even though they're all wearing dresses they stretch out on the floor in a circle, because they're dancers and that's what they do here, they've all spent years of their life down on this floor, stretching together, gossiping, rolling around during class. No one is talking today, even [Erica](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1532572703492) is silent, kicking off her wedges to point and flex her feet. 

[Marin](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1532902969259) comes in and they all sit up, a wave of panic flooding through the room. Marin is as calm as ever though, she just offers them a cool smile and nods at [Cora](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1532571448560). “Mademoiselle Hale, he's ready for you.”

Cora gets up and smooths out her dress, reaches up and tucks her hair behind her ears. “Catch you later, losers.”

“Bitch,” Erica tosses back, but it doesn't have any of the usual jest behind it; Cora just shrugs halfheartedly, looking tense, and walks away, her spine rigid as she follows Marin out of the studio.

The five of them wait quietly in the center of the studio. Erica's still compulsively pointing and flexing her feet, [Kira's](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1532569885541) twisting her hair around her fingers, [Malia's](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1532563562911) sitting with her knees to her chest, the skirt of her dress pulled over her legs, and [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1532314739288) and [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1532315497384) are slumped into each other, playing invisible tic tac toe like they did when they were kids, tracing x’s and o’s over the backs of each other's hands.

Fifteen minutes go by before Marin comes back in, alone. “Mademoiselle Yukimura, please.”

Kira flashes them all a panicked glance as she gets up and follows Marin back out of the studio. They all go like this, one by one, until the only two girls left are Malia and Lydia. Malia gives her a wry smile before staring down at the splint on her hand.

“You're gonna get it,” she says. “You were all anyone was talking about on Saturday.”

Lydia shrugs, tapping her fingers anxiously against the floor. “You don't know that for sure.”

Malia shrugs. “Nothing is ever for sure.”

Lydia snorts. “True.”

The door swings open and both their heads snap up, Marin is hovering in the doorway. “Mademoiselle Tate, he's ready for you now.”

Malia's mouth twists to the side and then she jumps up, giving Lydia a limp wave with her good hand. “See you later, I guess?”

Lydia gives her a tight smile and watches Malia trail after Marin. It feels like she's been waiting forever in this room, where she's taken hundreds of classes, gone from an eager little girl to a flashy, fearless teenager and now here she is, a complicated young woman who's tasted both the bitterness of failure and the sweetness of success, who's blend and broken for this, the privilege of being here, waiting for her fate to be decided by Derek Hale.

After an eternity Marin comes back and Lydia leaves the studio with her, following Marin down the hallway to the elevator. They take it down to the second floor and walk to Derek's office, Marin leans against the wall next to the doorway and to Lydia's surprise she leans in and gives Lydia a gentle hug.

“It's been a pleasure,” Marin says softly. “Truly.”

Lydia's so thrown she can only nod as Marin lets her go and raps on the door before pushing it open. Derek is sitting behind his desk dressed casually in a hunter green vee neck and jeans, like this is just another day and not the penultimate moment of Lydia's life. “Hey, come on in,” he says, gesturing to the chair set in front of his desk. “Thank you, Marin.”

Lydia glances back at her, suddenly a little panicked. She's so used to the safety net of Marin’s presence, the woman who's pushed her more than almost anyone else, for years, she trained Lydia for this, so that she could be here, survive long enough to get to this moment, and Marin seems to understand, she pats Lydia's shoulder reassuringly and tilts her head towards Derek. “Go on.”

Lydia flashes her a tight smile and enters the office, jumping when she hears the door close behind her. She crosses the room to the chair and sinks down on trembling legs, folding her shaking hands in her lap as she waits, watching Derek sift through some papers on his desk before pushing one across the gleaming wooden surface towards her, his expression unreadable.

“I made you a list,” he says, and taps the paper with his fingertips. “Take a second to look it over, tell me what you think.”

Lydia's heart sinks, disappointment so sharp in her chest it almost makes her cry out. She takes the paper from him and looks down at it, expecting to see a list of companies that have expressed interest in her, since apparently she didn't get into HBC, but instead all she sees are a list of names and addresses, all professionals, all based in San Francisco, the words on the page blurred by her tears: 

A nutritionist. A therapist. A doctor who specializes in eating disorders. A physical therapist.

“I don't understand,” she says in a frail voice. “What is this?”

Derek leans back in his chair. “I had Braeden talk to some of the girls in the company - discreetly of course - and make some referrals. Everyone on that list is covered by your company insurance.”

Lydia stares at him, the paper slipping through her fingers and floating down to his desk, her body numb with shock. “What?”

“I want you to take the summer to recover,” he tells her. “You can take company class as long as you're feeling okay but I want you to focus on getting better. I'll need you ready for when we start rehearsals in September.”

Lydia blinks rapidly, tears beading at her eyelashes. “I got into the company?”

Derek offers her a crooked smile and reaches across the desk to take her limp hand in his. “Your contract is downstairs in the office, I had a feeling your mom would want to look it over first thing.”

Lydia shakes his hand, feeling dizzy. This is it, the moment she's been waiting for, every struggle and every bleeding toe, every injury, every tear she ever cried has been worth it. 

She did it.

“Thank you,” she breathes, almost unable to make sense of it, she's imagined this moment so many times that it's hard to believe it's really happening.

“Oh, one more thing. Malia's going to need some help, do you think you could teach her privately a few days a week to get her caught up? I don't want her to be totally lost when we start company rehearsals next fall. I'll pay you, of course.”

Lydia feels like she did on Saturday night, like she's as light as a balloon, on the verge of floating away. “Malia got in too?”

Derek nods, looking pleased. “You her, and Cora.”

“Oh my god,” Lydia whispers to herself. He's taking three of them, more girls than any of them had really dared to hope for. “What about the others?”

“Kira got into ABT, she seemed very pleased by it, as she should be. And I would have taken Erica if I'd had one more spot available,” he says a bit wistfully. “But Deucalion has decided to start his own company, I guess he's got a taste for it now. He's starting at the ground up, he was able to take quite a few of your classmates. Erica, Boyd, Danny, and the twins.”

“Oh,” she says, feeling a flash of disappointment that Aiden won't be going into the company with her. “Your aren't taking any boys?”

“I'm taking Isaac,” Derek says. “We weren't planning on it initially but since I retired and Jordan moved up from soloist to principle we were able to make a spot for him. And Jackson's going to London, if you were wondering.”

“Fantastic,” she whispers under her breath.

“You know, I had an interesting meeting with Allison,” he says casually, making Lydia's eyes widen. “She explained to me that she'd gotten into college and she thought it was time to move on. And I understand, especially considering her, ah, family’s reputation.”

“She isn't Kate,” Lydia says quickly, and slams her mouth shut, horrified at herself, but Derek gives her a soft smile and she relaxes.

“I know that,” he says reassuringly. “And I said as much. And then I mentioned that we were still hiring instructors for the school’s summer intensive session, and since her fall semester doesn't start until the end of August I thought it would work out perfectly. It took a little convincing but Allison agreed.”

“She's - Allison's staying to teach?”

“Just for the summer,” he says mildly. “But she knows she's always welcome here. As are all of you. This place is your home, it always will be.”

Lydia stands up and reaches out to shake his hand again, overwhelmed by a wave of gratitude. It took her a long time to trust Derek, to believe that he cared about her, that he would protect her over his own uncle if it came down to it. “Thank you, thank you so much. For everything.”

Derek catches her hand before she can pull it away and lays his other hand over it, giving her a remorseful look. “Look, I just want to say, about Peter” -

“It doesn't matter,” she says quickly. “It's over now.”

“I know.” Derek furrows his brow. “I just wanted to say, I should have stepped in sooner. I should have been supervising him from the beginning. I just - I wanted to trust him. I wanted to believe he wouldn't cross any lines with me here in charge. I thought being here would be enough to protect you. I was wrong. And I'm sorry for it.”

“He was your family,” she says softly. “Of course you wanted to trust him.”

“That's not an excuse.” Derek blinks, looking far away for a moment, like his mind is somewhere else. “I know better now. And I can promise you, I won't put you in a situation like that again.”

“Deal,” she says.

“You should go downstairs, I'm sure your mother wants to see you.”

“Okay.” She feels a bit like an idiot, standing there with Derek Hale, her small hand held between his, a big dumb smile spreading over her face, but she's so happy she can't bring herself to care.

Derek takes the elevator down with her and when they walk into the lobby Lydia is assaulted with the shrieks of all the level eights, who are gathered in the lobby together hugging and crying and jumping all over each other. Lydia spots Allison standing with Isaac and waves, and Allison screams at the top of her lungs and runs over to her.

“You did it!” Allison grabs Lydia's hands and jumps up and down, her cheeks pink.

Lydia looks back at Derek, surprised. “You told her?”

Derek shrugs, giving Allison a look that Lydia can only read as one of respect. “She refused to get out of my office until I told her.”

Allison grins cheerfully. “I can be persuasive.”

Derek rolls his eyes good naturedly and points at her. “I need you to come back to my office at some point and fill out your paperwork so we can get you on the payroll.”

Allison loops her arms around Lydia's neck and drops her head to her shoulder, beaming. “Later, I'm too happy to do anything right now. This is the best day of my life.”

Lydia glances down at her. It's the best day of her life but she wouldn't necessarily expect Allison to feel the same way. “Really?”

Allison straightens up and wraps her up in a hug. “Of course it is! You're my best friend, you've wanted this ever since I've known you and now I get to see your dream come true! Do you know how amazing that is?”

Lydia swallows the lump in her throat and squeezes Allison tight. “Best day ever.”

Allison squeals. “Best day ever! Come on, everyone's talking about where we're all going and stuff.” She grabs Lydia by the wrist and pulls her deeper into the lobby. “Did you know Deucalion’s starting his own company?”

“Yeah, Derek told me.”

“Lydia!” Aiden runs over to her, a wild grin on his face. “I heard a rumor I'm looking at the newest dancer with the Hale Ballet Company.”

“You bet your ass you are,” she says, and lets him scoop her up and toss her into the air.

She laughs when he catches her, kissing his cheek as he holds her above the ground, just like in their piece when they'd do the walk, his arms wrapped under her thighs. “I'm so happy for you,” he says, and kisses the corner of her mouth very quickly before setting her down.

“You're one to talk.” She reaches up and straightens the collar of his shirt. “You're starting out in a brand new company.”

“We did good,” he says. “I'm gonna miss you.”

Lydia presses her lips together and nods. “Yeah, me too.”

“We’re gonna be in the the same city though,” he points out, and gently tugs on a strand of her hair. “So I'll see you around.”

Lydia smiles. “You better.”

“Hey, Lydia!” Cora is waving her over, Lydia slips past Danny and Kira to where Cora is standing next to Malia, who's perched on the arm of the sofa looking dazed.

“You got in right?” Cora asks, all business.

“Yeah.” Lydia offers Malia a smile. “Hey, I heard you got in too.”

Malia gives her a panicked look. “You're going to help me, right?”

“Yeah, of course, once you get your splint off I think” -

“Derek's giving me Laura's apartment in the city,” Cora interrupts impatiently.

Lydia blinks at her. “Okay?”

“He never uses it, he has his own place there. Isaac's gonna move in with him, but Laura's place is huge and it's just sitting there, so we're gonna take it.”

Lydia tilts her head. “What's your point?”

Cora shrugs, nonchalant. “Thought you'd want to know it has three bedrooms.”

“Wait, what?”

“And we own it, so you wouldn't have to pay rent, just utilities. Which is a big deal since it's not like dancer in the corps of a ballet company make the big bucks.”

Lydia's mouth drops open. “You're asking me to move in with you?”

“Say yes!” Malia shouts. “It’ll be so fun!”

Lydia looks at Cora in disbelief. “Are you being serious?”

Cora give her a sly, pleased smile. “Come on Lydia, don't you want to have some fun?”

Lydia starts to laugh. “You're a crazy bitch, you know that?”

Cora looks delighted with herself. “Takes one to know one.” 

She holds her arms out and hugs Lydia though, and Lydia thinks about sitting in the bathroom while Cora cried her eyes out, because underneath their icy exteriors and sharp attitudes she and Cora are the same - two little girls who got abandoned young, who thought they could protect themselves by trying to be perfect, who watched a girl they idolized die for the dream they all share.

“For real though,” Cora whispers into the shell of her ear. “Congrats.”

“You too,” Lydia murmurs, and reaches out to hug Malia too. “And you, don't think I'm going to let you slack off. I'm going to kick your ass all summer.”

“Great,” Malia moans dramatically. “Can't wait.”

“Hey Lydia.” Allison pops up behind Cora. “Your mom wants to see you, she's in the office.”

Lydia wave goodbye at Cora and Malia and follows Allison across the lobby to the office. Before she can open the door it flies open and her mother is there, hands over her mouth, tears running down her face. She looks at Lydia and lets out a gasp before reaching out and pulling her into a suffocating hug.

“Oh honey,” her mother sobs, actually sobs. “I'm so proud of you. I can't believe it! I'm so happy for you baby, you did it!”

“Yeah, I did,” she says softly, and smiles to herself, letting her mother fawn over her.

“Um… excuse me?” Allison's waiting in the doorway of the office, glancing at something in the lobby that Lydia can't see. “Sorry Ms. Martin, I need to borrow Lydia for a minute.”

“Oh, alright.” Her mother releases her and lets out a shaky laugh, wiping her eyes carefully with the edge of her hand. “Oh I'm just so thrilled, I don't know what to do with myself.”

“What's going on?” Lydia asks Allison, who shakes her head and giggles.

“Just come here, wait until you see this,” she says.

Lydia follows Allison out of the office and stops in the middle of the lobby, suddenly understanding what Allison wanted to show her. Scott and Stiles are standing inside near the entrance and Stiles is holding a gigantic bunch of shiny silver balloons, a manic smile blooming over his face when he sees her.

Lydia glances at Allison. “You told him the second you found out, didn't you?”

“Yeah, I just can't help myself sometimes,” Allison sighs dreamily, pointing to the balloons. “This is so romantic.”

Like another fleeting perfect moment, Lydia thinks, and she doesn't care how horribly cheesy it is or that everyone else in the lobby is staring at them, because she got into the company and Stiles is here giving her everything she never thought she deserved and she feels like one of the balloons he's holding - shiny and new, floating above the ground while still being held safely by him so she can't fly away.

She runs across the lobby and throws her arms around his neck.

*

“Oh my god, look how cute!” [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1532917608926) squeals on Wednesday night, sliding a framed picture she dug out from underneath her bed across the floor to [Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1532918069131).

Lydia stretches out on her stomach to look, it's a picture from their level two recital: Lydia, Cora, Erica, Allison, and a few other girls who didn't make it past level three. They're all wearing midnight blue tutus and have silver stars pasted on their cheeks. Lydia traces her own face, her round little girl cheeks, her bright smile.

“God, look at us,” she sighs. “We were babies.”

“I know,” Allison says wistfully and tosses the picture into a large cardboard box. “Crazy.”

Lydia folds over the top of the box she's been packing and secures it shut with packing tape. “I still can't believe you talked your dad into renting an apartment here for the summer.”

Allison skims through the packing checklist Lydia made for them, a purple gel pen between her fingers. “Turns out asking to stay here for the summer with Scott and his mom right after the showcase scared the shit out of him, who would've thought?”

“You know they never would've said yes.” Lydia reaches up and tightens her ponytail, they've been packing all day and her hair is a mess, there's a black sharpie mark across one of her shins and her makeup melted off hours ago.

Allison grins deviously. “It worked though. Dad had a three month lease signed by Monday night. I am the queen of parental manipulation.”

“Your mom's really not coming here with him?”

Allison's face falls. “No. I think they're having some problems.”

“Sorry,” Lydia offers tentatively.

Allison shrugs. “Screw her. It's not my problem she doesn't want me to be happy.”

“Are you?”

Allison picks up a spiral notebook and flips through it before tossing it into the container they're using for recycling. “Well, I got into college, I'm staying here for the summer along with all of my friends, I get to teach here so I can still dance for fun, Scott didn't freak out at me about the whole kissing Isaac thing, so yeah. Things are good.”

“Your boyfriend is a saint,” Lydia comments, getting a new box from the stack in the corner.

Allison smiles. “Yeah, I did good.”

“Hey.” Stiles pops his head in the doorway of their dorm room, Scott trailing behind him. “Seriously, you have more boxes? How is that possible?”

Lydia smiles sweetly at him. “You're the one that volunteered the Jeep for moving purposes.”

He squints at her. “You know, I'm starting to think you're only dating me for my car.”

Lydia waves a dismissive hand at him. “Don't be ridiculous, I'm merely taking advantage of the fact that my boyfriend has a car with trunk space.”

“Unlike some assholes we know,” Allison mutters.

Lydia picks up the last box she packed and shoves it at Stiles’ chest. “You're the best, thank you!”

“You said there would be pizza,” he grumbles. “Where's my pizza?”

“I'll order,” Allison offers, whipping out her phone.

“Here,” Scott reaches out and takes the box from Stiles. “I got this one.”

Stiles lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief and shakes his arms out. “So we're moving all of this stuff to your mom’s and then next week we're taking it up to Cora’s place?”

“Mhmm, that's the plan. She wants to get it cleaned out first before we move in.” Lydia takes the packing checklist from Allison. “Okay, other than the bathroom stuff and my bedding I think I'm done.”

“Oh thank god.” Stiles flops onto her bed face first and starfishes out, his long legs dangling over the edge. “Wake me up when the food gets here.”

Lydia jumps onto her bed and climbs over him, stretching out on her stomach so she's stacked on top of his body, laughing when she feels him grunt under her. He's so tall she can lay her entire body on him without touching the bed, she wraps her feet around his calves and slides her arms over his, curling her fingers around his wrists and pressing her cheek between his shoulder blades. Stiles lifts his face off the bed and twists his head just enough to look at her. “Whatcha doing?”

“Just enjoying my new mattress. It's very comfortable.”

Stiles flips them over and Lydia shrieks with laughter as she rolls onto her back. Stiles stretches out on top of her, smashing his face into her pillow. “There, now shh, I'm resting. Carrying boxes for two hours is more of a workout than lacrosse. You've exhausted me. I may never recover.”

“Oh honey.” Lydia reaches up and pats his cheek. “You're talking to a girl who works out six hours a day, if you're looking for sympathy you're in the wrong place.”

“Rude.” Stiles pouts and lifts his head to press his lips against hers.

“Mm, sorry,” she murmurs, pursing her lips playfully to get another kiss.

“Okay, I'm gonna go down and help Scott load up the car,” Allison says loudly. “You two enjoy yourselves.”

Lydia grins at her over Stiles’ shoulder. “We plan to.”

*

“What do you think?” [Allison](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1532837273646) holds up two tubes of pink lipstick. “Primrose pink or seashell?”

[Lydia](https://www.fashmates.com/set/5b1c87abb2986b4b386dcf44-1532900981575) takes the lipsticks from her and holds them up against the blush pink of Allison's prom dress. “Seashell.”

Allison takes the lipstick back from her and turns toward to mirror to apply it. They're in Allison's new room, at least for the summer, in the apartment her dad rented. After they got their nails done yesterday for prom they spent the rest of the day decorating and now pretty cream and green printed curtains hang over Allison's bedroom windows that match the duvet on her bed, there's a nice rug on the floor, and the room looks a person lives here with makeup scattered across the surface of the vanity, clothes flung over the bench that's set against the foot of the bed. Allison even put pictures up, Lydia's secretly hoping Chris will stay here so Allison will have another reason to come back more from Davis to visit once school starts.

Lydia examines her reflection in the mirror as she finishes applying her own red lipstick. Her hair has been curled into soft waves, the front pieces pinned back, she has on pearly silver highlighter that make her cheekbones sparkle with a subtle sheen and her eyes are lined in liquid liner. She looks beautiful, and happy, the kind of girl with good hair and a good life, problem free, and it makes an nice picture, even if it's not really all true.

It could be though someday, she realizes. She hopes, anyway.

“Girls.” Allison's dad knocks on her bedroom door. “The boys are downstairs, are you ready?”

“Coming!” Allison shouts. She glances at Lydia, who nods and picks up her clutch before standing up, carefully smoothing her hands over the form fitting fabric of her dress. 

Allison grins. “That dress is killer.”

Lydia checks her reflection in the mirror one more time. “That's the idea.”

They walk out of Allison's room, Lydia's mom and Allison's dad are waiting for them in the living room with matching sentimental expressions on their faces. They all take the elevator down to the lobby of the building, they decided to take their prom pictures in the courtyard because it has a garden and a huge wisteria arch that Lydia's mother deemed too perfect to not take advantage of.

When they get to the courtyard Scott and Stiles are waiting for them in matching black tuxes, Scott’s mom standing a few feet away next to Stiles’ dad, his arm slung casually over her shoulders as she dabs at her eyes with a tissue. Scott looks relaxed, idly chatting while using one hand to gesticulate, but Stiles looks nervous, his fingers tapping against his leg as he nods, like he's only pretending to listen. When he sees Lydia his eyes widen and he takes a step forward, freezes, and stumbles back into Scott, who whispers something and pushes Stiles forward again.

Stiles shakes his head once, quickly, and strides across the courtyard to her, holding out the small cardboard box clutched in his hands. “Hi, wow, you look beautiful, beyond beautiful, like beautiful squared to infinity beautiful and this is for you, um, I think I'm supposed to put it on, right?”

“Thank you,” she says softly, and smiles at him, he's being adorably nervous right now. She opens up the box and pulls out a corsage, three sunset roses that match his boutonniere, woven with baby’s breath and pale pink tulle on a sheer silver ribbon. 

“Here honey.” Her mother steps in and takes the box from her, a camera clutched in her hands. “Oh that's beautiful, Stiles.”

Lydia holds out her right arm to him and Stiles carefully ties the corsage around her wrist while her mother snaps away. They get directed to go stand next to Scott and Allison under the wisteria arch and take cheesy prom pictures for a half an hour, taking shots of all four of them together, then each couple, then the girls and the boys separately, until Lydia's cheeks hurt from smiling.

Their parents finally let them go and they pile into Stiles’ Jeep, Lydia in the passenger seat and Scott and Allison in the back. They make out the entire way there while Stiles and Lydia ignore them and occasionally make jokes at their expense, only stopping when Scott and Allison come up for air. 

The Beacon Hills High School prom is being held at the Beacon Hills Civics Center, the same building where HBC had its Spring Gala. When they go inside though it looks almost unrecognizable, everything has been decorated in burgundy fabric and silver streamers, flashing lights, tables set up on one side of the ballroom, a dance floor on the other with a DJ commanding the far wall. They weave through groups of people and find a table to claim, the girls put down their clutches and Allison looks around before raising an eyebrow at them. 

“Well?” she says. “We're here to dance, aren't we?”

Scott grins and kisses her softly before taking her hand to walk over to the dance floor, and Stiles offers Lydia a hopeful smile as he closes the space between them and rests his hands lightly on her hips.

“So,” he says. “I know you basically danced your brains out last week and you don't really even consider this dancing, but what do you think? Got one left in you?”

Lydia tilts her head and smiles slowly, relishing the way he looks at her as she pretends to consider it. “Are you asking me to dance?”

He holds one hand palm up at her. “Well?”

Lights flash across his face, making his eyes shine like stars and he looks so beautiful it makes her lightheaded but Lydia doesn't feel like she's going to fall, not with her stiletto heeled feet solid on the floor and the warmth of his palm against her skin when she takes his hand. “I'll always save a dance for you, how about that?”

Stiles grins at her, leaning in so their lips are only inches apart. “I don't know, I thought you had this whole very serious specific plan about dancing and here you go making promises to me” -

“You are _terrible_ ,” she declares, and leans in to kiss him.

He kisses her back softly, his fingers threading through hers. “So that's a yes?”

“Yes,” she murmurs, and kisses him one more time before tilting her head towards the dance floor and nodding at him.

He leads her though the crush of dancing teenagers until they find a space next to Scott and Allison. Allison laughs and throws her hands up in the air, Scott's arms around her waist as he sways behind her. Lydia spins so her back is to Allison's chest, laughing when Allison playfully squeezes her hips, and holds her hands out so Stiles can stand right in front of her.

And then they dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering I don't have any immediate plans to write a sequel to this but I am considering writing some one shots set in the general universe of the Hale School of Ballet. If that's something you'd be interested in or there's something specific you're dying to read that I managed not to cover here let me know in the comments! It also might be nice to write something new now that I'll have the time so I should be back with something eventually. If you'd like to be notified when I post next you can subscribe to me or you can check for updates on my [Tumblr](http://traeflower12.tumblr.com) (traeflower12). Once again, to everyone here reading this, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. I couldn't have done this without you. <3


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